A blast of air slapped rain in my face. South — southwest. Again I couldn’t be sure. But into the bay; that was definite. Stratton had felt it, too. He went at once to the compass platform. I stayed an instant longer, watching the men on the after-deck immediately below me. Wentworth was standing facing the stern, with two men by the winch on the starboard quarter, their eyes fixed on him, waiting for his signal. The sea seethed back, white foam sliding away in the lights, and out of the greyness astern came a sloping heap of water that built rapidly to a sheer, curving breaker. The winch drum turned, the cable slackened; the wave broke and thudded, roaring against the stern. The men, the winch, the whole after-deck disappeared in a welter of white water. The ship lifted under me, swung and then steadied to the snap of the hawser. The thud as we hit the bottom again jarred my whole body. I saw the mast tremble like a tree whose roots are being attacked, and when I looked over the rail again, the stern was clear of water, the men picking themselves up.
The wind was on my face now. It came in gusts, and each gust seemed stronger than the last. L4400 had got her anchor; she was turning head-to-sea, steaming out of the bay.
I went for’ard to the bridge, wondering how long it would be before the hawser snapped or the men on the afterdeck were swept overboard. The deck under my feet was alive now, the engine-room telegraph set to slow astern and the screws turning. Stratton was on the open side deck, trying to keep an eye on stern and bow at the same time. If only she could shake herself free. I could feel it when she lifted, the way she was held by the bows only; for just a moment, when the wave was right under her, you could almost believe she was afloat.
Pinney came up. I don’t think anyone saw him come. He just seemed to materialise. ‘Would you believe it? The Old Man’s countermanded Braddock’s orders. Said we’d no business to be pulling out….’ There was more of it but that’s all I can remember — that, and the fact that he looked tired and shaken. Nobody said anything. Nobody was listening. We had other things on our minds. Pinney must have realised this, for he caught hold of my arm and said angrily, ‘What’s happening? What’s going on?’
‘The wind,’ I said. ‘The wind’s gone round.’
I could see it now, blowing at Stratton’s hair, whipping the tops off the combers and sending the spray hurtling shorewards in flat streamers of white spindrift. We were no longer sheltered by Keava. God, how quickly that wind had shifted, blowing right into the bay now — thirty, maybe forty knots. I went down to the wheelhouse. The barometer was at 969, down another two points. Quick fall, quick rise — that was the old saying. But how far would it fall before it started to rise? Cliff had mentioned 960, had talked of a near vertical fall of pressure. That was what we were getting now. I hadn’t seen a glass fall like that since I’d sailed into a cyclone in the Indian Ocean. I tapped it and it fell to 968.
‘Full astern both engines.’ Stratton’s voice from the bridge above came to me over the helmsman’s voice pipe. The telegraph rang and the beat of the engines increased as the stern lifted to slam down again with a deep, rending crash that jolted my body and set every moveable thing in the wheelhouse rattling. ‘Stop both engines.’
I was gripping hold of the chart table, every nerve taut. Gone was the silence, that brief stillness of waiting; all was noise and confusion now. ‘Full astern both.’ But he was too late, the stern already lifting before the screws could bite. Stop both and the jar as she grounded, the bows still held and the hawser straining. Spray hit me as I went back to the bridge. The wind was pitched high in the gusts, higher and higher until it became a scream.
The phone that linked us to the after-deck buzzed. There was nobody to answer it so I picked it up and Wentworth’s voice, sounding slight and very far away, said, ‘We took in half a dozen turns on the winch that time. Either the anchor’s dragging …’ I lost the rest in the crash of a wave. And then his voice again, louder this time: ‘Three more turns, but we’re getting badly knocked about.’ I passed the information to Stratton. ‘Tell him,’ he shouted back, ‘to take in the slack and use the brakes. I’m holding the engines at full astern. If we don’t get off now …’ A gust of wind blew the rest of his words away. The phone went dead as the ship heaved up. The crash as she grounded flung me against the conning platform.
I was clinging on to the phone wondering what was happening to those poor devils aft and trying to think at the same time. The wind was south or perhaps sou’-west; it would be anti-clockwise, whirling round the centre of that air depression and being sucked into it at the same time. I was trying to figure out where the centre would be. If it was north of us…. But north of us should give us a westerly wind. It depended how much the air currents were being deflected in towards the centre. I was remembering Cliffs message: the Faeroes had reported barometric pressure 968, rising, with winds southerly, force 10. Our barometer was now showing 968. If the storm centre passed to the west of us, then this might be the worst of it. I decided not to go down and fiddle with the glass again.
‘We made several yards.’ Wentworth’s voice was shrill in the phone. ‘But the winch is smoking. The brakes. They may burn out any minute now. Keep those engines running for God’s sake.’
I glanced at Stratton but I didn’t need to ask him. I could feel the vibration of the screws through my whole body. ‘Engines at full astern,’ I said. ‘Keep winching in.’
I put the phone down and dived across the bridge to yell the information in Stratton’s ear. The weight of the wind was something solid now. I felt the words sucked out of my mouth and blown away into the night. ‘Christ! If the winch packs up now…. Stay on the phone, will you.’ Stratton’s face was white. I was lip-reading rather than hearing the words. Below him white water glistened, a seething welter of surf sucking back along the ship’s side. A shaggy comber reared in the lights, curled and broke. Spray went whipping past and ectoplasmic chunks of foam suds.
The ship moved. I could feel it, a sixth sense telling me that we were momentarily afloat. And then the shuddering, jarring crash. I was back at the phone and Wentworth’s voice was yelling in my ears — something about the winch gears. But his voice abruptly ceased before I could get what it was he was trying to tell me. And then Stratton grabbed the phone from my hand. ‘Oil,’ he said. ‘There’s an oil slick forming.’ He pressed the buzzer, the phone to his ear. ‘Hullo. Hullo there. Number One, Wentworth.’ He looked at me, his face frozen. ‘No answer.’ There was a shudder, a soundless scraping and grating that I couldn’t hear but felt through the soles of my feet.
And then it was gone and I felt the bows lift for the first time. ‘Winch in. Winch in.’ Stratton’s voice was yelling into the phone as a wave lifted the stern, running buoyant under the ship. There was no grounding thud this time as we sank into the trough and glancing for’ard I saw the bows riding high, rearing to the break of the wave. ‘Wentworth. Do you hear me? Winch in. Wentworth.’ His hand fell slack to his side, still holding the phone. ‘There’s no answer,’ he said. His face was crusted with salt, a drop of moisture at the end of his slightly up-turned nose. His eyes looked bleak.
‘You look after the ship,’ I told him. ‘I’ll go aft and see what’s happened.’
He nodded and I went out on to the flag deck. Clear of the bridge the full weight of the wind hit me. It was less than half an hour since I’d stood there and felt that first blast of the storm wind in my face. Now, what a difference! I had to fight my way aft, clinging to the deck rail, my eyes blinded by salt spray, the wind driving the breath back into my lungs. Fifty, sixty knots — you can’t judge wind speeds when they reach storm force and over. It shook me to think that this perhaps was only the beginning. But we’d be round Malesgair then, sheltered under its lee — I hoped. By God, I hoped as I fought my way to the after-rail and clung there, looking down to the tiny stern platform with its spare anchor and its winch gear.