Patrick O'Brian - H.M.S. Surprise

On deck he found the scene changed once more. The wind had increased and it had backed three points; the nature of the sea had changed. Now, instead of the regular procession of vast rollers, there was a confusion of waves running across, bursting seas that filled the valleys with leaping spray: the underlying pattern was still the same, but now the crests were a quarter of a mile apart and even higher than before, though at times this was less evident because of the turmoil between. There were no albatrosses anywhere in sight. Yet still the frigate ran on at this racing speed under the precious scrap of canvas forward, rising nobly to the gigantic waves, shouldering the cross-​seas aside: the launch had been carried away in spite of the bosun’s treble gripes, but there seemed to be no other damage. She was beginning to roll now, as well as pitch; and on each plunge her head and the lee side of her forecastle vanished under white water.

All the officers were on deck, wedged into odd corners. Mr Bowes, unrecognisable in tarpaulins, caught Stephen as a weather-​lurch knocked him off his balance and guided him along the life-​line to the Captain, still standing there by his stanchion. He waited while Jack told Callow to go below and read the barometer, and then said, ‘Woods, of the afterguard, is sinking fast; if you wish to see him before he dies, you must come soon.’

Jack reflected, automatically calling out his orders to the men at the wheel. Dared he leave the deck at this stage? Callow came crawling aft. ‘Rising, sir,’ he shouted.

‘It’s risen two lines and a half. And Mr Hervey desires mc to say, the relieving tackles are hooked on.’

Jack nodded. ‘That means a stronger blow,’ he said, glancing at the foretopsail, mould-​eaten in the tropics:

but they had done all they could to strengthen it, and so far the storm-​canvas held. ‘I’ll come now, while I can.’ He cast himself off, called the master and Pullings to take his place, and blundered heavily below. In the cabin he drank off a glass of wine and flexed his arms. ‘I am sorry to hear what you tell me about poor old Woods,’ he said, still in the same hoarse roar; then, moderating his voice, ‘Is there no hope?’ Stephen shook his head. ‘I say, Stephen, I hope Mr Stanhope and his people are not too tumbled about -not too upset.’

‘No. I told them the Surprise was a capital ship, and that all was well.’

‘So it is, too, as long as the foretopsail holds. She is the bravest ship that ever swam. And if the glass is right, this will blow out in a couple of days. Come, let us go along?’

‘Do not be too distressed: it is horrible to see and hear, but he feels nothing. It is a very easy death.’ Horrible it was. Woods was a leaden blue, and the animal sound of his laboured breath sounded louder, close to, than the all-​pervading din. He might have recognised Jack; he might not. His open mouth and half-​closed eyes showed little change. Jack did his duty, said the words expected of a captain - it touched him to the quick - spent a few moments with the other men, and hurried back to his stanchion.

A quarter of an hour, yet what a change! When he went below the frigate had no more than a ten-​degree roll: now her larboard cathead touched green water. And still they came sweeping up from the black westwards, the gigantic streaming seas, taller than ever - impossibly tall - and their foam filled her waist five feet deep, while the whole of her forecastle vanished as she plunged. Still she rose, pouring water, spouting from her scuppers: every time she rose. More heavily now?

In the cabin one of Mr Stanhope’s servants, half drunk, had managed to blow himself up with a spirit-​stove: miserably burnt, and shattered by falling against a gun, he was being patched up by the surgeons. Mr White, Mr Atkins and Mr Berkeley, all of whom had struggled earnestly in London to reach this position, sat wedged together on the couch, with their feet tucked up out of the water, staring in front of them. Hour after hour.

On deck the day was fading, if that grey shrieking murk could be called day. Yet still Jack could see the rollers sweeping towards her stern from half a mile away, their white tops clear: their whole length traversed the sky as the frigate rolled; and two monstrous waves, too close to one another, exploded in ruin just astern, to be swept up into a still greater whole that thundered as it came, vast and overwhelming. And above the thunder as it passed his waiting ear caught a sharp gun-​like crack, a crash forward, and the foremast went by the board. The foretopsail, ripped from its yard, vanished far ahead, a flickering whiteness in the gloom.

‘All hands, all hands,’ he roared. Already the ship was steering wild, yawing off her course. He glanced back. They were running down into the trough: unless they could get her before the wind - could get some headsail on her - the next wave would poop her. She would broach to and take the next sea on her beam.

‘All hands - ‘ his voice tearing blood from his throat - ‘Pullings, men into the foreshrouds. It’s gone above the cap. Forestays’l, forestays’l! Come along with me. Axes! Axes!’

In the momentary lull of the deepest trough he raced along the gangway, followed by twenty men: a cross-​sea broke over the side waist-​deep: they ploughed through and they were on the forecastle before the ship, slewed half across the wind, began to rise - before the next wave was more than half-​way to them. Men were swarming up the weather ratlines, forcing themselves up against the strength of the gale; their backs made sail enough to bring her head a little round before the sea struck them with an all-​engulfing crash and spout of foam - far enough round for the wave to take her abaft the beam, and still she swam. The axes cleared the wreckage. Bonden was out on the bowsprit, hacking at the foretopmast-​stay that still held fast to the floating mast, slewing the ship around; holding his breath Jack swarmed out after him, his head under the foam, feeling for the gaskets of the forestaysail, snugged down tight under the stay. He had it - his hands, many hands were tearing at the lashings, so tight they would not, would not come.

‘Hold on!’ roared in his ear, and there was a strong hand pressing on his neck: then an unimaginable force of water, a weight and a strength past anything - the third wave that broached the frigate squarely to.

The pressure slackened. His head was above water, and now there were more men in the shrouds. Again the thrust of the gale on them brought her head round, helped by a savage cross-​sea; but they could not hold there for ever - a few more minutes of this and the shrouds would be swept clear. Down again as she plunged, and running his hand along the sail he found the trouble - the down-​hauler had fouled the clew: stray lines from the wreckage in the hanks. ‘Knife!’ he roared as his head came clear. It was in his reaching hand: a lightning slash, and all sprang free.

‘Hold on! Hold on!’ and again the thunder of a falling sea, a mountainous wave: the intolerable pressure on his chest: the total certainty that he must not let go of the sail clutched under him: his legs curled round the bowsprit to hold on: hold on. . . strength going. But here was breath again in his bursting lungs and he reared up out of the water bawling, ‘Man the halliards. D’ye hear me aft? Man the halliards there!’

In slow jerks the sail rose up the stay, filled: they sheeted home. But now she was broadside on, wallowing. Oh would it be in time? Slowly, heavily she turned as the

forestaysail took the strain, the great wave racing up -turned, turned just enough and took it on her quarter:

rose to the height, and the full blast in the head-​sail set her right before the wind. Faster and faster she moved, steering nimbly now; for though the last blow had flung the men from the wheel the relieving-​tackles held; and the next wave passed harmlessly under her stern.