water filled his eyes and mouth. He no longer knew whether he was facing upwards or downwards. He merely fought for life, the breath sucked from his lungs by the thundering impact of the wave. Was this it? Was this to be his death, here, off the South American coast, at the age of twenty-three? Then, suddenly, there was air, and with a wild surge of elation he knew that she was through, that the Beagle had gone through the wave, that she had come round into the wind.
And then he saw Sulivan, like an extra sail tangled in the mizzen-tops, screaming soundlessly and pointing to the stern. He followed the line of Sulivan’s jabbing finger but there was nothing there, only blackness. Another big sea furled over the prow. The Beagle shuddered and backed off, but she had ridden the wave sufficiently to hold her course. By now Sulivan was positively frantic. FitzRoy’s eyes tried to follow his wild signalling once again, and there, framed by an encompassing sheet of lightning, he saw what Sulivan had been trying to warn them of: the sheer rock face of Lobos Island, not eighty yards off the stern. Gesticulating for all hands to follow him, he lunged across the deck and fell upon the larger of the two remaining bower anchors, still attached to the ship by thick iron cables. Other crewmen fought with the second anchor, and with a clanking rush that in ordinary circumstances would have been deafening, but could barely be heard above the crash of the storm, several hundred pounds of cast iron disappeared over the side and into the water. The anchors bit immediately. Just how shallow the water was became apparent as another wave slammed into the prow, and the Beagle juddered back again, her hull actually scraping across the smaller of the two anchors as she did so. The chains began to pay out, and they could all now see the face of the island rearing behind them, maddened white surf thrashing about the rocks at its base. It was a matter of yards now. The Beagle shipped another towering sea, which forced them to give yet more ground, towards the solid wall at their backs. To have come this far, to have fought against such odds, only to be dashed to pieces against the shore!
Then, a shuddering sensation, which ran the length of the deck, announced that the cable had run to the end of its scope. Now it was up to the anchors to hold them. FitzRoy thanked God he had ordered the boatswain to inspect every link of her chains, and hoped to Christ that Sorrell had done his job properly. Another wave thumped into the prow, and all of them felt the rudder scrape against shingle; but the Beagle gave no more ground. As long as the cables did not part, they might yet be safe from destruction. FitzRoy stared back up into the mizzen-tops once more, hoping to acknowledge Sulivan’s presence, hoping to let him know that he had saved them all, but there was no sign of life from the young midshipman.
Exhausted, every drop of energy spent, Sulivan clung, barely conscious, to the swaying rigging, a shapeless white bundle of rags flapping against the night sky.
‘By the looks of it you were knocked about like peas in a rattle.’
Admiral Otway chuckled to himself, while FitzRoy wished he had moored somewhere else. Once more, he found himself standing to attention in the admiral’s cabin, this time with the Beagle clearly visible through the sternlights. She did, he had to admit, look a sorry sight: not only was she battered almost beyond recognition, but what remained of her rigging was festooned with drying clothes and hammocks. Ragged wet sails hung limp from her booms.
‘The locals say it was the worst storm for twenty years. You must have enjoyed a pretty half-hour.’
Half an hour? FitzRoy’s mind reeled. It had felt like eternity.
‘If you ask me, it’s your own deuced fault, Mr FitzRoy, for cutting matters so fine.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘So, what damage to report?’
‘Both topmasts were carried away, with the jib-boom and all the
And then he saw Sulivan, like an extra sail tangled in the mizzen-tops, screaming soundlessly and pointing to the stern. He followed the line of Sulivan’s jabbing finger but there was nothing there, only blackness. Another big sea furled over the prow. The Beagle shuddered and backed off, but she had ridden the wave sufficiently to hold her course. By now Sulivan was positively frantic. FitzRoy’s eyes tried to follow his wild signalling once again, and there, framed by an encompassing sheet of lightning, he saw what Sulivan had been trying to warn them of: the sheer rock face of Lobos Island, not eighty yards off the stern. Gesticulating for all hands to follow him, he lunged across the deck and fell upon the larger of the two remaining bower anchors, still attached to the ship by thick iron cables. Other crewmen fought with the second anchor, and with a clanking rush that in ordinary circumstances would have been deafening, but could barely be heard above the crash of the storm, several hundred pounds of cast iron disappeared over the side and into the water. The anchors bit immediately. Just how shallow the water was became apparent as another wave slammed into the prow, and the Beagle juddered back again, her hull actually scraping across the smaller of the two anchors as she did so. The chains began to pay out, and they could all now see the face of the island rearing behind them, maddened white surf thrashing about the rocks at its base. It was a matter of yards now. The Beagle shipped another towering sea, which forced them to give yet more ground, towards the solid wall at their backs. To have come this far, to have fought against such odds, only to be dashed to pieces against the shore!
Then, a shuddering sensation, which ran the length of the deck, announced that the cable had run to the end of its scope. Now it was up to the anchors to hold them. FitzRoy thanked God he had ordered the boatswain to inspect every link of her chains, and hoped to Christ that Sorrell had done his job properly. Another wave thumped into the prow, and all of them felt the rudder scrape against shingle; but the Beagle gave no more ground. As long as the cables did not part, they might yet be safe from destruction. FitzRoy stared back up into the mizzen-tops once more, hoping to acknowledge Sulivan’s presence, hoping to let him know that he had saved them all, but there was no sign of life from the young midshipman.
Exhausted, every drop of energy spent, Sulivan clung, barely conscious, to the swaying rigging, a shapeless white bundle of rags flapping against the night sky.
‘By the looks of it you were knocked about like peas in a rattle.’
Admiral Otway chuckled to himself, while FitzRoy wished he had moored somewhere else. Once more, he found himself standing to attention in the admiral’s cabin, this time with the Beagle clearly visible through the sternlights. She did, he had to admit, look a sorry sight: not only was she battered almost beyond recognition, but what remained of her rigging was festooned with drying clothes and hammocks. Ragged wet sails hung limp from her booms.
‘The locals say it was the worst storm for twenty years. You must have enjoyed a pretty half-hour.’
Half an hour? FitzRoy’s mind reeled. It had felt like eternity.
‘If you ask me, it’s your own deuced fault, Mr FitzRoy, for cutting matters so fine.’
‘Yes sir.’
‘So, what damage to report?’
‘Both topmasts were carried away, with the jib-boom and all the
Similar Books
