As soon as they passed Staten Island to port, the weather changed once again, leaving them becalmed in a restless sea between Nueva and Wollaston Islands. The fog came up once again, and there was little or no wind. The ship lay adrift for days, unable to move. They were close to a number of small islets—the graveyard of scores of ancient vessels, Quince told them ghoulishly—and a constant watch was held. Quince ordered the longboat lowered. With ten men bending into the oars, they tried to pull the ship away from the rocks.
Jack and Paul sat together watching the activity, Paul with a grimace on his face, Jack with a grin.
The line strung between the ship and the longboat was lost in the fog and those on deck could not see the smaller boat most of the time. A lookout on the bowsprit called constant direction, and the Star slowly made its way southwest.
After a number of watch changes, the exhausted longboat crew was called aboard to rest for the night. At two bells, Jack heard a shout down the companionway hatch.
“Starboard watch on deck! Weather coming!”
Indeed it was. Above their heads a dark mass blotted out the stars, and a driving sleet hit the ship.
“All hands aloft! Shorten topgallants, reef the topsails!”
The ship came alive with men dashing up the ratlines. The long windless days and nights had lulled them into a stupor, and every yard of canvas was out when the weather hit. If they didn’t shorten the sails up quickly enough, they would pay with a broken mast, or worse.
The winds shifted almost by the minute; the decks became dangerously slick from a driving wet snow. When the ship lurched, a sailor stowing a line on the port rail fell, banging painfully into the aft companionway hatch.
Quince stood next to the helm, straining to look for the rocks of Wollaston Island. The snow built on the masts and sails as he called to turn starboard. After twelve straight hours the winds from the west died—but only marginally, and the ship made little headway.
Serving his watch at the helm, Jack observed as officers gathered on the quarterdeck, shouting at each other. Jack caught Quince’s eye. Quince shook his head slightly as if to say, “Learn from this.” Three officers were nose to nose with each other, all constantly interrupting with a different view of what should be done.
“If we are to maintain discipline we must not allow the crew to see us in dissent.”
“It has been my understanding from every source I have spoken to, that to beat the Horn you must fight her.”
“We must do a combination. We must fight when it’s relevant and pull back when prudent. I, for one, would bear off to the north, and in the protection of this bay, try to sneak around the inside of the Horn.”
During all of this, Quince stood silently, legs apart, hands folded behind him, listening.
Mr. Mancy turned to address him. “Quince, none of us have done a passage around this devil, so you might as well voice your opinion.”
Quince stared to port at the vague shore of Wollaston, not looking at the group. “I’ve done many a passage, sir, and it’s my opinion, if indeed you’re asking, that the Horn loves a fight and she’ll only let you pass to port of her, and then only if you’re a worthy opponent.” The first mate turned to the sad group of inexperienced officers. “I say fight the bitch. Fight her tooth and nail.”
Hiding his smile, Jack bent over the binnacle, pretending to study the compass.
Mr. Boyer was the first to speak. “It was my understanding, Quince, that in our recent contretemps with the captain, he stated, and I thought rightly, that none of us ‘lubbers’ had made a passage around the Horn. Was that not so?”
The first mate brushed the snow from his red face and blew on his frozen fingers. “May I speak frankly, sir?” he asked.
“Of course. By all means.”
“First of all, none of us would be standing here jawing about how to get around the Horn if the captain was right.”
There was immediate concurrence among the three officers.
“Secondly, I think we would all have to agree that the captain was not dealing with a mind that was fully functional.”
Again a murmuring of assent.
“I’ve made ten passages of the Horn spread over the last fifteen years. None of them easy and two of them with Captain Deploy. The fact that he didn’t remember my name or that we had even sailed together grieves me.” Quince stepped up to the helm and scanned the compass. “You’ve drifted two points off your course, sailor; bring her up into the wind.”
Jack quickly responded.
The officers stood braced, waiting for Quince to continue.
“If we’re to survive this trip—and I see no reason why we can’t—I say do as Captain Deploy would have done in better days. Treat this passage as a difficult one, but approach it as a sailing problem, not as a myth that needs to be conquered.” He waited a moment, then continued. “The wind’ll blow in this quarter of the world from every direction and seemingly all at the same time, so to hide in the lee of this island with chances of going on the rocks seems foolhardy. We have to be out there driving to windward for all we’re worth. Changing the ship every minute if need be, but pushing, pushing till we can make enough seaway to turn the corner. If we have to beat halfway down to the Antarctic, so be it.” Quince looked at each man in turn. “To honor Captain Hans Peter Deploy, let’s not hide here like frightened apprentices, but stick our noses in this thing right and proper.”
Quince’s reasoning and knowledge of the sea touched Jack in a surprising way. He felt a strange uplifting and sense of pride at being on the Star with this man who had never lost his temper among the group of weak officers. Maybe it was worth staying alive, if only to see how it would play.
It didn’t take long for the men to make their decision. The Star swept out from the lee of Wollaston but couldn’t make her way west, so she showed her beam to the wind and beat south, toward the Antarctic. After several hours of relentless sleet, rain, and snow, she came about and started back toward the Cape, hoping to make at least a half mile on her long tack. But the winds picked up even stronger and she was forced to shorten sail, only to lose a mile instead of gaining a half.
On the quarterdeck the officers were grim with determination. They tried time and again to gain seaway at this famous corner of the world. Finally, they stood down, just before darkness set in, hoping to try again at dawn.
The sun never rose the next morning; the sky just became a shade lighter. But it was enough to see the rocks of the Cape, so once again they set out. When the Antarctic coast lay just twenty miles away, they tried a direct westerly charge, but the five thousand miles of open ocean ahead allowed the seas to build to enormous heights, beating them back to the east. This time when asked his advice, Quince suggested more sail, not less, so they would be more maneuverable—and it seemed to work. They were able to point further up into the wind and were fast approaching the Horn from their extended tack when one of their jib stays parted. It flew to the east like a giant pennant, cracking in the wind.
“Cut that sail, lads!”
Jack and Paul shot up the ratlines.
“Cut her away and be quick about it!” The Horn, less than a half mile away, loomed heavily on the horizon. If they could stay pointed up they would be able to tack just west of the Cape and with luck be through safely.