‘All hands down from aloft!’ he tried to shout, but the words died in his throat as he realized there wasn’t time. Every man on deck slid his arms and legs deep into the rigging, each desperately trying to sew himself into the very fabric of the ship, muttering prayers that the ropes would hold fast. FitzRoy looked up and saw the topmen scrambling in from the yards to the crosstrees on the mast. Another lightning flash, and his eyes locked with the terrified gaze of the Cornishman who had greeted him on his first day aboard. The man was clutching for dear life to the main-topmast cap.
A moment later, and the wave took the weather quarter-boat, effortlessly crumpling the little cutter to matchwood. Four brisk rifle shots snapping across the wind indicated that the windward gunports had blown in. Then the wave slammed across the deck, illuminated stroboscopically by the lightning, bulldozing into the men tangled in the rigging, pulverizing everything in its path. It felt like being hit by an oxcart. The Beagle tipped at an alarming angle, the whaleboat on the lee side dipped momentarily under the surface, instantly filled to the brim with water and was gone. She’s going over on her beam-ends. Dear Lord, we’re going down.
As the wave passed, FitzRoy looked back up for the Cornishman, but the entire main-topmast was gone, the main-topsail and the crewman with it. The fore-topmast was gone too, and the jib-boom, while the maindeck bow gun, which had been lashed abreast of the mainmast, had jack-knifed in its lashings, carriage upwards. Most of the remaining sails were flying free of their stays, flapping insanely. The lee side of the deck was still under water. The ship sagged helplessly, seemingly uncertain as to whether to right herself or give up the ghost and slide silently into the depths. FitzRoy could see the drenched figure of Midshipman Stokes, up to his waist at the lee rail, hurling the life-buoy into the surging waves. Beyond him two figures in the surf struck out powerfully for the Beagle’s side, only to be swallowed by the darkness. When the lightning flared again, there was no sign of either man.
Even as Stokes performed his vain rescue act, FitzRoy screamed and gestured to Murray, who had lashed himself to the wheel, to bring the stern round into the wind; but it was clear from the helpless look in the master’s eyes that the Beagle would no longer answer her helm. And yet agonizingly, unwillingly, the natural buoyancy of the little ship began to assert itself over the weight of water that had flooded her below decks. Like a cask she rose, and slowly regained her trim. As she climbed gradually towards safety, a second big wave cascaded across the decks. Stokes, caught in the open, slipped to the floor and was slammed against the lee rail, a mass of broken spars and tangled ropes piling after him, but somehow the water pouring through the sluices pinned him there, bruised and bloodied. Again the Beagle fought to right herself.
This is my ship. I must do something, before the next wave destroys us. FitzRoy slithered across the incline of the deck, grabbed a hatchet and hacked through the stern anchor-rope. Kempe, frozen to the compass-housing, looked on in horrified confusion, clearly thinking his captain had gone mad - but one or two of the seamen cottoned on, and stumbled across to help him. Between them, they grabbed the biggest fallen spar, lashed it to the rope-end, and hurled it overboard. Then FitzRoy hauled the dazed and bleeding Stokes back up the planking by his collar, just as the third wave made its pulverizing way across the deck. The waves were coming every thirty to forty seconds now, the crest of each peak level with the centre of the Beagle’s mainyard as she floundered her way through the troughs.
Curled in a dysentery-racked ball of pain in his cot below decks, Bartholomew Sulivan was shaken by the sight of the sick-bay door slamming open, forced off its catch by a waist-high tide of green water, even as the ship lurched and threatened to pitch him into it. Outside the door he could see crewmen, those who would normally have been resting between watches, bailing furiously for their lives. There was no time to feel for his uniform in the guttering flame from the oil-lamp, so he plunged through the cabin door in nightshirt and bare feet, and waded towards the companionway leading to the upper deck.
Gradually, the Beagle began to slew round. The anchor cable had run right out to the clink, and the lashed-on spar, acting as a huge rudder, was pulling her stern round into the wind. Sulivan took in the scene at a glance, his white nightshirt flapping madly in the wind. One or two crewmen froze in astonishment. Was this the ghost of their former captain, come to claim their souls?
FitzRoy froze too, but for different reasons. I’m not running a damned kindergarten here, you young idiot! Get back inside! He gestured angrily for Sulivan to retreat, but the youngster was not to be deterred. He had the best eyesight of any on the ship, and a lookout was needed. Barefooted, adrenalin dulling the vicious pain in the pit of his stomach, he sprang into the mizzen-mast rigging, and clambered up into the wildly swaying tops. Shorter and stouter than the other two masts, the mizzen-mast was the only intact vertical remaining on the Beagle’s deck. With the ship’s stern into the wind, it would now be taking the brunt of the waves. In the circumstances, it was an almost suicidal place in which to locate oneself.
Sulivan did not have long to wait. The first really big sea to approach from the stern thundered up underneath the rudder, like a horse trying to unseat its rider. As the little brig’s stern climbed towards the crest, her bow wallowed drunkenly in the trough. Broken spars and torn canvas shrouds cascaded down towards the bowsprit, some fifteen feet below the wheel. Then, with a smack, the wave broke over them from behind, punching the air from the sailors’ lungs and flooding the maindeck to waist height. Such was the weight of water that the Beagle slewed off course, her stern drifting to starboard; and FitzRoy, Bennet and Murray fought the wheel, every sinew straining, to prevent her broaching. FitzRoy barely dared look up at the mizzen-mast, but look he did, and there, sheened by lightning, was the wild, drenched figure of Sulivan, his face flushed with excitement, punching the air by way of a return greeting.
Another mighty sea came billowing over the stern, and another, and it became clear to the exhausted men at the wheel that they must soon lose their battle to keep the ship in line with the wind and the waves. All but one of the storm trysails were gone now, ripped into convulsing shreds by the banshee winds. With insufficient sail to guide 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 l
ee 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 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 small spars. I didn’t even hear them break. We lost the jib and all the topsails, even though they were in the gaskets. Two boats were blown to atoms — just shivered to pieces - and ... and two men were drowned. Another two were crushed by a falling yard, and another badly cut by a snapped bowline.’
‘A couple of matlows are neither here nor there. You can have some of mine. But the damage to the ship is more serious. You’ll have to put into Monte Video for new boats and running repairs.’
Otway’s tone mellowed, as he sensed FitzRoy’s distress. ‘Would you care for a glass of madeira? It’s a devilish fine wine.’
FitzRoy demurred.
‘Don’t censure yourself unduly, FitzRoy. The Adventure was laid right over on her side and lost her jolly-boat, and she was safe in harbour. The Adelaide didn’t go undamaged either. Sailors die all the time.’
‘I don’t understand it though, sir. The barometer gave no indication there was going to be such a blow.’
Otway grunted. ‘Still taking the advice of the little gentleman and lady in the weather-box? That machine of yours is little more than a novelty, and the sooner you appreciate it the better.
“When rain comes before the wind,
Halyard, sheets and braces mind,
But if wind comes before rain,
Set and trim your sails again.”
That’s the only wisdom I’ve ever needed in thirty years.’
FitzRoy remained silent.
‘Now. One other matter. This Midshipman Sulivan of yours. What sort of fellow is he?’
‘He’s a trump, sir. I never saw his equal for pluck and daring. He can be eager and hasty, it’s true, and he is, well, not the neatest of draughtsmen. But I’d say there’s not a finer fellow in the service, sir.’
‘Excellent, excellent.’
‘He’s a Cornishman, from Tregew, near Falmouth. He has the most extraordinary powers of eyesight. He can see the satellites of Jupiter with the naked eye. He’s also an exceptionally devout officer, sir.’
‘What sort of “devout”?’
‘Midshipman Sulivan is a sabbatarian, sir.’
A harrumph from Otway. ‘Can’t say I hold with evangelicals myself. The Church of England should be good enough for any civilized man. Still, he sounds just the fellow. A vacancy has arisen for an officer of the South American station to study for a lieutenant’s examination back in Portsmouth. He
can join the Ganges for a week or two, then transfer to the North Star under Arabin. She’ll give him passage home. It’s a splendid opportunity for the boy.’
FitzRoy bit his lip. ‘Yes sir. Yes it is.’ As weary and exhausted as he felt, the spirit drained from FitzRoy more profoundly than it had at any point during the previous evening’s ordeal. They were taking away his only friend.
Sulivan found FitzRoy seated at the table of his tiny, sopping cabin, adrift on a sea of home-made charts and diagrams scribbled across salt-damp paper. The young man ducked his head to enter and rested his hand on the washstand; his body was still weak from the effects of dysentery.
FitzRoy gestured for him to sit. ‘You are supposed to be in the sick list, Mr Sulivan. I’m surprised the surgeon has allowed you up and about.’
‘He ... I didn’t really feel it necessary to tell him, sir. I’m really very much better.’
‘You don’t look it. But, as it happens, it was necessary for me to pay you a visit. The entire vessel owes you a vote of thanks for your bravery. Your foolhardy bravery, I should attest.’
Sulivan coloured. ‘Not a bit of it, sir. That’s why I came to see you ... I felt you should know that the crew are saying you saved their lives. The officers and the men. Nobody else could have navigated us through that maelstrom.’
‘I didn’t save anybody’s life. I cost two sailors theirs by my own incompetence.’
‘That’s not true!’ Sulivan blurted out.
‘At the first sign of those unusual cloud formations, I should have stood in to the shore, reefed the sails, struck the yards on deck and sat tight. I made a serious mistake.’
‘You had orders to follow!’
‘Orders set out a month previous, with no foreknowledge of the weather that was to befall us. I should have had the courage to act by my own initiative.’
‘Orders must be obeyed. You know that - sir. You did the only thing you could do.’