Bolitho did not answer. But it was uppermost in his thoughts. A strong north-westerly was a curse to his squadron. To any French commander trying to gauge the right time to quit Toulon it would be merciful, a chance he could not possibly ignore.
He watched as Gilchrist's beanpole figure emerged above the quarterdeck ladder, shining dully in his long tarpaulin coat. Gilchrist had probably been more frightened of his captain than he had of the first storm signs. Or so eager to prove that he could manage any eventuality he had left it far too late for anything but submission.
He wiped his streaming face with one sleeve, feeling the sting of salt in his eyes and mouth. When he peered aloft again he saw that much of the canvas had vanished, although the fore topsail was only lashed to its yard at one end. At the other a great balloon of canvas filled and puffed as if it contained a living, savage monster. Something passed across the scudding cloud formations, and he ran to the rail as it struck the forecastle with a sickening thud.
A voice called hoarsely, "Get that man below to the sickbay!" Then Lieutenant Veitch. "Belay that order. There's nought the surgeon can do for him!"
Poor wretch, he thought. Fighting the lashing sail, with only his feet to support his body as he craned over the great, swaying yard. His messmates on either side of him, all cursing and yelling into the darkness, punching the wet, hard canvas until their nails were tom out, their knuckles raw. One slip, an extra gust of wind, and he had fallen.
"Man the braces there! Stand by on the quarterdeck!" Grubb snarled, "Ease the spoke when I gives the word!
Treat "em like they was babies!"
"Helm a"lee!"
More figures staggered through the dismal gloom, a midshipman bleeding from the head, a seaman holding his arm to his side, teeth bared with agony.
"Lee braces! Heal"e!"
The Lysander dipped her seventeen-hundred tons of oak and artillery heavily into a maelstrom of bursting spray. Above, in a shortened, iron-hard rectangle, the reefed topsail seemed to swing independent of their muscle and bone, every mast groaning to the strain of wind and sea.
Bolitho saw it all, heard his ship and seamen fighting to bring the bows round and into the wind, to hold her under command… If the rudder failed, or the topsail was ripped to ribbons like the forecourse, it might be too late for them to set the staysail. And that could carry away just as easily.
But with the wheel hard over, the helmsmen's bare feet treading wet planking as if they were walking uphill, the two-decker responded. Bolitho watched the sea boiling in- board from the weather gangway to the beakhead, saw it surging across and down to the opposite bulwark, taking men and loose gear in its path. Much of it would find its way deep into the hull. The pumps must be going now, but in the din he could not hear them. Stores would be spoiled, fresh water, as precious as gunpowder, polluted and rendered useless.
He released the nettings and allowed the wind to thrust him. along the tilting deck until he fought his way aft to the compass.
Grubb shouted, 'ship's "ead is almost due north, sir!" He turned to watch as a whimpering man was carried past. 'she might be able to "old it!"
'she must!" Bolitho saw his words go home. "If werun before this wind we’ll never beat back in time!"
Grubb watched him go and then said to a master's mate, "How say you, Mr. Plowman?"
Plowman gripped the binnacle for support, his coat shining like sodden silk in the feeble lamp. "I told Mr. Gilchrist to call all "ands!" He added angrily, "God rot "im, "e might "ave been the death of us all!"
Grubb grimaced. 'still time for that!"
Bolitho was on his way forward to the rail again when he heard a yell.
"Heads below! Fore t"gallant's coming adrift!"
Before anyone could move or act the uppermost spar on the foremast tilted violently to leeward, hung for a few agonising seconds and then plunged down like a tree. Stays and shrouds all followed it in a great mass of rasping cordage and blocks, until with a jarring crash it came to rest below the starboard bow, the furled topgallant sail showing through the darkness like some nightmare tusk.
Grubb shouted, 'she's payin" off, sir!" He threw his considerable weight on the wheel. "It's like a bloody anchor up forrard!"
Bolitho saw Farquhar staggering along the weather gangway, drenched to the skin, one shoulder bare and bloodied by some fallen object from above. It was all plain to see. As if he were studying a diagram instead of watching a ship fighting for survival.
Had-Herrick been in command at this moment none of it would have happened. No lieutenant would be too frightened to call him, and no matter what Herrick was like as a strategist and the squadron's second-in-command, he was a superb seaman.
Bolitho shouted, "Get a strong party up forrard!" He strode past Farquhar, knowing that Allday was close on his heels. – "We don’thave time to waste!"
Calls shrilled, and voices responded. Bolitho saw marines and seamen; some fully dressed, some naked, fighting through the torrential spray to where the boatswain and a handful of older men from the forecastle party were busy amidst the tangle of rigging.
Bolitho felt the ship lift and then dip heavily into a long trough, and heard several cries of alarm as the trapped top- gallant mast and yard crashed against the hull.
He realised that Pascoe was already there and shouted, "Are you in charge?"
Pascoe shook his head. "Mr. Yeo is cutting some of the rigging adrift, sir!" He ducked like a prize-fighter, his arms bent, as a great wall of water surged amongst the gasping men. "And Mr. Gilchrist is leading the main party outboard by the cathead!"
Bolitho nodded. "Good." To Allday he said, "We’ll add our weight. There's nothing more we can do aft."
He groped his way down and through the huge coils of tarred rope, his shins and hands scarred within seconds.
A voice said "Gawd, it's the commodore, lads!" Another muttered, "Then we must be in a bad way!"
Bolitho peered over the side, seeing the frothy undertow beneath the bows, the broken mast surging and veering into the hull like a battering ram. In the darkness the jagged wood gleamed as if to mock their efforts. To put a seal on their hopes.
He saw Gilchrist waving his arms through the tangle, like a man seized by a terrible sea-creature.
"Axes, Mr. Yeo! Save the yard, but hack the mast away as soon as you can!"
A man tried to claw his way back from his precarious perch on the cathead, but Gilchrist seized him and forced him to look down past the massive anchor-stock, to the surging water below him.
"We save the ship, or go under together! Now catch a turn with that line, or I’ll see your backbones tomorrow!"
Gilchrist's fury, his unintentional hint that there was indeed going to be a tomorrow, seemed to have an effect. Grunting and swearing they threw themselves into battle with the fallen spars, using their anger to hold fear at bay and drown the wail of the wind.
Bolitho worked alongside the anonymous figures, using the back-breaking work to steady his thoughts. The topgallant* mast could be replaced. Herrick had made certain of a good stock of spare spars before leaving England. If the yard could be saved, the ship's sail-power should be normal again in a few days, once they enjoyed calmer weather. But it would take time. Tune when they should have been on their station, the one lie had so carefully selected to snare the enemy supply ships.