Ramage glanced yet again at the mountains. Aitken had hurried up to the quarterdeck, Southwick was standing at the rail, and both men were watching him. There was no expression on their faces: the Captain was giving the orders, and they and the ship's company were obeying them. Obviously they wondered why the Captain should be taking in sail in a falling wind, and Ramage realized that Southwick saw nothing strange, let alone ominous, in the light over the mountains.
Double-reef the topsails? The Jocasta's speed would drop to a couple of knots, the pace of a child dawdling to school. Ramage was obeying his instincts rather than the rules of seamanship, and he was liable to be ordering the topmen aloft within half an hour, setting the sails again. He looked at the mountains. Nothing had changed; nor had his instincts stopped nagging him to get the Jocasta jogging along under double-reefed topsails.
He raised the speaking trumpet to his lips and soon reached the last of the orders: "Lower topsails . . . trice up and lay out . . . take in two reefs! " Now the topmen were working out on the yards, hauling at the stiff cloth of the sails and tying the reef points. "Lay in, " which sent the men scrambling along the yard to the mast, was followed by "Lower booms, " when the stunsail booms were dropped until they were lying along the yards; and then came "Down from aloft! "
Now there remained only the orders for the men on deck: "Man the topsail halyards . . . Haul taut . . . Tend the braces, step lively there! ..." Finally, with a glance at the dog vanes: "Trim the yards . . . Haul the bowlines! "
As Ramage reached out to put the speaking trumpet back on its hook at the side of the binnacle box he saw Southwick point over the larboard side and Aitken's face suddenly freeze the moment he looked.
A long line of tumbling spray was racing over the water towards them: a great squall which must have come down the side of the mountain was now tearing up the sea. This side of the squall line the wind was little more than a breeze; beyond it there was a gale. Following it down the side of the mountains in a solid blanket were black clouds, writhing and twisting and tumbling towards the shore like lava from a volcano.
"Eight points to starboard, steer north! " Ramage snapped at the quartermaster, and snatched up the speaking trumpet to give the orders that would brace up the yards and trim the sheets as the wind arrived. He wanted the squall to catch the Jocasta on the starboard quarter, giving her a chance to pick up way as the tremendous wind hit her. If it caught her on the beam it would simply lay her over; even if it did not rip her masts out she might not be able to convert the enormous pressures on her sails and masts into a forward motion, and they would capsize her, like a storm blowing down a fence.
As the men ran to the sheets and braces Ramage glanced towards La Guaira and was startled to see the whole coast hidden by the same kind of tumbling cloud pouring from the peaks, the sea already a boiling mass of water for a mile or more offshore, and the squall line moving out, slow but inexorable. The yards were coming round, the two men at the wheel were hauling desperately at the spokes and the quartermaster was already shouting to another two seamen to bear a hand. Ramage hurried to the binnacle and peered in at the compass, conscious that the sunlight was fading rapidly, like the beginning of a solar eclipse.
Eight points should do it, and the ship's head was beginning to swing. Over on the larboard quarter what had been a line of spray was now a steep wall of blackness, a swirling mass of rain and cloud and spray reaching up sheer like the face of a cliff.
"Must be a caldereta, " Southwick muttered, his voice betraying awe at the sight.
"I hope the rigging is going to stand up to it, " Ramage said sourly. "There's a gale of wind there . . ."
It was still nearly a mile away, advancing slowly. Again Ramage thought of lava crawling down a mountain side, or a glacier, moving slowly but with enormous strength, crushing everything in its path.
The guns were still secured, the boats lashed down. The Jocasta was now steering up to the north, still on the starboard tack, with a veering wind and almost directly away from the coast. There was nothing more he could do except wait and hope the wind inside that rain would be steady in direction. If it veered too fast and caught the Jocasta aback, the masts would go by the board. Ramage had a sudden picture of Admiral Davis's face as he tried to explain what had happened . . . but to be able to explain, he thought inconsequentially, he had to be safely back in English Harbour . . .
Three quarters of a mile now and the wind was veering slightly. A puff of warm wind, and then another, and the black wall seemed to be speeding up. Ramage reached for the speaking trumpet. "All hands! All hands! " he shouted. "Hold on for your lives when this squall hits us."
Aitken was watching him. "Nice range for a broadside, " Ramage said.
"I'd reach it with a musket, " the First Lieutenant said, and a few moments later added: "Or a pistol! "
Then it was on them; a series of ever-increasing blasts lashing them with rain and salt spray which streamed in almost horizontally, needle sharp on the face and blinding for the eyes. The noise reached a crescendo, the wind invisible yet seeming solid, screaming into the rigging, battering at bodies, tearing at sodden clothes, whipping up ropes' ends like coachman's whips.
Ramage, blinded even though he had held his hands over his eyes, felt the Jocasta slowly heeling: not the easy movement of a roll as a wave passed under the ship but a gradual inexorable tilting of the deck as the enormous force of the wind pressed against every square inch of hull, masts, yards, ropes and sails; as though she was being hove down for careening.
She was not paying off! Eight points had been too much; the ship was dead in the water and gradually going over. He managed to blink his eyes open for a moment and saw the men fighting, eyes shut, to hold the wheel, but the quartermaster had lost his footing and was struggling on his back in the lee scuppers like a stranded fish. And along the starboard side the seas, driven before this tremendous wind, were piling up like snow against a wall. Southwick was clutching the quarterdeck rail; Aitken, spreadeagled on the deck, was holding on to an eyebolt, and the whole ship was inside a cocoon of streaming rain and spray: he could barely see the end of the jibboom. A moment before the stinging salt made him shut his eyes again he saw that the reefed maintopsail was in shreds but, by a miracle, the foretopsail was holding, a bulging, swollen grey curve straining every stitch and seam.
He realized he was now gripping the cascabel of a 6-pounder gun and hard put to keep on his feet, but as he sorted out what he had just seen in his mind he knew that the Jocasta was on the verge of capsizing: a few more pounds of pressure, a few more degrees of heel . . . Already the water was . . . Suddenly he felt the ship recovering from being a dead mass: she seemed to give a massive shrug and the hull began to move, life slowly coming back to her as she gathered way.
The wheel! Blinking away the salt in his eyes he scrambled to the wheel. Three men were holding on to the spokes, pulling down with all their weight, but the fourth man had fallen.
"Hold her! " Ramage bellowed, seizing a couple of spokes and hauling down, "hold her, otherwise she'll broach! "
Now, with his back to the wind and rain and spray, it was easier to see, and the ship was slowly, agonizingly slowly, coming upright as she turned to bring the wind aft: all the enormous strength was now beginning to act on the foretopsail and the transom, trying to thrust her before it instead of pressing along the starboard side, trying to lay her over on her beam ends.