her, it was only a matter of time before the Beagle slewed beam-on to the weather again.
FitzRoy fought to clear his mind. If the steering chains or the rudder quadrant snap we’re finished anyway . He gripped the wheel ever more tightly with cold, shaking fingers. We’ll have to bring her head round into the wind. It’s our only way out of this. I’ll have to take a gamble with our lives.
There must, he calculated, be about thirty-five seconds on average between waves. To bring the Beagle ’s head right round would take longer than that. If she was caught beam-to between waves in her battered state, she would certainly be rolled over. But if she stayed where she was, with big seas breaking repeatedly over her stern, the end would only be a matter of time. FitzRoy took a decision. Prising his fingers from the wheel, he grasped the hatchet once more, fell upon the anchor rope, and severed the rudimentary rudder that was keeping her in position. Then he seized the wheel from the bewildered Murray and waited for the next wave. Lieutenant Kempe, long past understanding, stood like a statue, clinging bedraggled to one of the uprights of the poop rail. Little King, open-mouthed, sea-battered and frozen in shock, no longer a naval officer but a stunned child, seemed barely to know where he was.
Another big breaker reared up behind them. FitzRoy could not see it, but he felt his knees give way as the deck surged up beneath his feet. As it did so he swung the wheel down violently to his right. The ship yawed to starboard, surfing down the rising face of the wave as the wind caught the tattered remnants of her canvas.
Of course, thought Murray, who suddenly understood. FitzRoy had used the force of the wave to accelerate the Beagle’s about turn to gain her a few vital extra seconds. It was an extraordinary gamble, for as she swung round, she rolled exaggeratedly to port, almost on her beam-ends once more. The lee bulwark dipped three feet under water, all the way from the cat-head to the stern davit. Foaming eddies of water barrelled across the deck, thumping into the chests of the crew, grabbing at their clothing, inviting them down into the depths. The skipper’s mistimed it. She’s going down. The main-topsail yard blew right up to what remained of the masthead, like a crossbow fired by a drunkard who’d forgotten to insert a bolt. Incredibly, tiny figures still hung from each yard-arm, tossed about like rag dolls but somehow still clinging to braces and shrouds. Up on the mizzen-mast, like a gesticulating lunatic on the roof of Bedlam, Sulivan swung far out above the boiling sea, the mast dipping so low over the water it seemed as if he would be pulled under by the next wave.
But somehow, slowly, ever so slowly, the Beagle rose again, her prow swinging, inch by inch, round into the gale. Water sluiced through her ports as her decks emerged once more from the angry foam. A flash of lightning illuminated the next monstrous peak. It was some way off, but it was coming in fast. The little ship seemed to be taking an age to manoeuvre herself into the wind. FitzRoy could only pray now. Come round faster. For God’s sake, come round faster. It was as if the little brig herself was rooted to the spot in fear. Imperceptibly, she felt her way by degrees to port, painstakingly precise in her movements, a frail, unwilling challenger turning to face a champion prizefighter.
The lower slopes of the wave slid under her bow, feeling her weakness, hungrily seeking the leverage to roll her over. The Beagle began to climb, but she began to roll too. Higher and higher she climbed; further and further she rolled to port. And then the peak of the wave furled over the prow, to deliver the final, killer punch. The Beagle’ s bowsprit pierced the wave’s face at an insane, impossible angle; then she took the full impact three-quarters on, a foaming maelstrom powering unstoppably across her decks.
FitzRoy could see nothing. Surging white
FitzRoy fought to clear his mind. If the steering chains or the rudder quadrant snap we’re finished anyway . He gripped the wheel ever more tightly with cold, shaking fingers. We’ll have to bring her head round into the wind. It’s our only way out of this. I’ll have to take a gamble with our lives.
There must, he calculated, be about thirty-five seconds on average between waves. To bring the Beagle ’s head right round would take longer than that. If she was caught beam-to between waves in her battered state, she would certainly be rolled over. But if she stayed where she was, with big seas breaking repeatedly over her stern, the end would only be a matter of time. FitzRoy took a decision. Prising his fingers from the wheel, he grasped the hatchet once more, fell upon the anchor rope, and severed the rudimentary rudder that was keeping her in position. Then he seized the wheel from the bewildered Murray and waited for the next wave. Lieutenant Kempe, long past understanding, stood like a statue, clinging bedraggled to one of the uprights of the poop rail. Little King, open-mouthed, sea-battered and frozen in shock, no longer a naval officer but a stunned child, seemed barely to know where he was.
Another big breaker reared up behind them. FitzRoy could not see it, but he felt his knees give way as the deck surged up beneath his feet. As it did so he swung the wheel down violently to his right. The ship yawed to starboard, surfing down the rising face of the wave as the wind caught the tattered remnants of her canvas.
Of course, thought Murray, who suddenly understood. FitzRoy had used the force of the wave to accelerate the Beagle’s about turn to gain her a few vital extra seconds. It was an extraordinary gamble, for as she swung round, she rolled exaggeratedly to port, almost on her beam-ends once more. The lee bulwark dipped three feet under water, all the way from the cat-head to the stern davit. Foaming eddies of water barrelled across the deck, thumping into the chests of the crew, grabbing at their clothing, inviting them down into the depths. The skipper’s mistimed it. She’s going down. The main-topsail yard blew right up to what remained of the masthead, like a crossbow fired by a drunkard who’d forgotten to insert a bolt. Incredibly, tiny figures still hung from each yard-arm, tossed about like rag dolls but somehow still clinging to braces and shrouds. Up on the mizzen-mast, like a gesticulating lunatic on the roof of Bedlam, Sulivan swung far out above the boiling sea, the mast dipping so low over the water it seemed as if he would be pulled under by the next wave.
But somehow, slowly, ever so slowly, the Beagle rose again, her prow swinging, inch by inch, round into the gale. Water sluiced through her ports as her decks emerged once more from the angry foam. A flash of lightning illuminated the next monstrous peak. It was some way off, but it was coming in fast. The little ship seemed to be taking an age to manoeuvre herself into the wind. FitzRoy could only pray now. Come round faster. For God’s sake, come round faster. It was as if the little brig herself was rooted to the spot in fear. Imperceptibly, she felt her way by degrees to port, painstakingly precise in her movements, a frail, unwilling challenger turning to face a champion prizefighter.
The lower slopes of the wave slid under her bow, feeling her weakness, hungrily seeking the leverage to roll her over. The Beagle began to climb, but she began to roll too. Higher and higher she climbed; further and further she rolled to port. And then the peak of the wave furled over the prow, to deliver the final, killer punch. The Beagle’ s bowsprit pierced the wave’s face at an insane, impossible angle; then she took the full impact three-quarters on, a foaming maelstrom powering unstoppably across her decks.
FitzRoy could see nothing. Surging white
Similar Books
