Peggy Herring - Anna, Like Thunder

The crew whirls around like a waterspout, attending to this and that, and eventually they position themselves around the bulwark on the foredeck. There are no instruments, tools, or devices to help us now. We must depend only on what can be seen with the naked eye, a difficult enough task made worse by the dying light. There are twenty-one sets of eyes strung along the bow of the boat, for even Maria and I have joined the men.

“When you see a shoal or a reef, or a large rock beneath the surf, you must call out right away,” Timofei Osipovich instructs us. “Don’t wait. The survival of the brig may depend on you.”

Nikolai Isaakovich embraces the wheel and holds it tight to his chest. He pushes himself onto his toes and uses the wheel to hold himself up. The men begin to call.

“Reef!” barks Ovchinnikov, peering through his hair.

“Rock!” cries the apprentice. “Be careful!”

We call out to my husband, our voices floating up one by one from all sides of the ship. “There’s one here on my side!” exclaims Yakov. “Watch out!”

The water’s surface ripples and glistens, making it difficult to see below the surface. When I do get a glimpse of the depths, I see shadow, and once, fish that scatter and vanish as quickly as they appeared.

My eyes strain against the moving water. I’m not sure I know what to look for. I don’t want to call out in error, but I also fear my hesitation will cause the ship to run aground.

And then suddenly an object comes into focus. It happens just like it does when I’m trying to find a certain star with my telescope. That sudden clarity. I point. “A rock! Kolya! There’s a rock!”

In response, Nikolai Isaakovich turns the wheel and steers away, along a passage so narrow even our tiny skiff couldn’t navigate through it.

Kotelnikov points, his sizeable trunk pressed into the bulwark. “Look out! Look out! Are you looking out?”

Sobachnikov cries, “A sandbar!”

We’re pushed even closer to shore.

I listen for the sound of a scrape. I listen for the splintering of wood. But neither come. The brig remains afloat.

“Drop anchor,” my husband orders. The men release an anchor hooked to the aft of the brig. It splashes and the sea gulps it down. I hold my breath—we all do—but the anchor doesn’t catch. The water is still too deep. The brig continues to drift toward shore, waiting for that anchor to reach bottom or hook onto something.

As the hazards slide into view the crew calls out: “Rock!” “Sandbar!” “Reef!”

Nikolai Isaakovich turns the wheel to port and to starboard as he’s directed. The guidance comes fast, and he must concentrate.

Then, he orders again, “Drop anchor!” The second anchor goes over. It’s slightly smaller than the first but fitted with the same pointed flukes, so perhaps it will work. We wait to feel the brig slow and stop, but no. We still drift.

“Again!” my husband orders. “Drop anchor!” This time surely we’ll be successful.

But the brig lurches toward shore on the surf. “It’s not working! Navigator!” cries the apprentice.

My husband orders for the last time, “And again!” That’s our fourth anchor. There are none left.

Then—merciful God—the brig stops.

A cheer erupts. The crew members embrace, slap shoulders and backs. I catch the eye of Nikolai Isaakovich. He smiles weakly from behind the wheel. Zhuchka runs back and forth, nudging us with her nose as she passes. She yaps and though I know she can’t possibly understand the peril we’ve evaded, to whatever extent is possible, I believe she feels our joy.

I turn my attention back to the water. Where are we? We’re ringed by rock stumps. Not far from the bow of the vessel lies a patch of pale sea, visible even in the dim light. It’s a broad shoal on which we would have run aground had we not halted when we did. Beyond this patch of sea lies a narrow, sandy beach that stretches away from us until it reaches the mouth of a river—the river we saw as we drifted in, the river that seemed to be pulling us ashore.

Tomorrow, the wind will return, and we’ll reverse our feat. Nikolai Isaakovich will navigate back out through the rocks, and we’ll safely return to our mission.

But the crew members haven’t budged from their places ringing the brig’s bow. They’re quiet and watchful.

“Look,” cries the apprentice Kotelnikov. He points.

The sea heaves. The swell is even stronger this close to shore. It lifts our brig, then releases it. Lifts and releases. Over and over again, and with each rise and fall, the brig strains against the creaking anchor cables that hold us steady. But one anchor cable rubs against a rock as the brig falls with the sea.

Timofei Osipovich and his faithful Ovchinnikov rush to the bulwark. Timofei Osipovich shoves the apprentice aside as Ovchinnikov brushes his hair from his eyes like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“Pull,” cries Timofei Osipovich, and he and Ovchinnikov reach over and wrap their hands around the cable. I lean out over the bulwark so I can see what they’re doing. Their fingers tighten around the cable. They twist and pull, trying to shift it away from the rock. They’re fighting not only the cable. The brig and the sea pull against them, too.

“We need help,” Timofei Osipovich shouts. Yakov and the Aleuts squeeze in beside them, but there’s only so much room. One of the Aleuts climbs over the bulwark and hangs upside down, while Ovchinnikov holds him by the waist of his trousers. The Aleut stretches toward the cable. Perhaps from that precarious position he can add force to the others’ efforts.

But whatever they do, it’s to no avail. We helplessly watch strand after strand of the anchor cable wear through, each one shredding then snapping until only one fibre remains. When it goes, the broken cable flops into the ocean like a snake and the brig pivots. The ship comes to rest, held in place by the remaining cables.

Our new position is no better. The second cable ends up similarly compromised. The American, John Williams, climbs over the bulwark and gingerly steps onto the cable. He holds the railing, and the weight of his body is supported by the cable. He springs on it, gets it bouncing up and down.

“Be careful,” says Yakov.

“Get back on board,” orders Timofei Osipovich. “You’re making it worse.” He reaches for the cable. His hands are bleeding. The Aleuts are at his side once again.

This cable doesn’t last as long as the first, and it soon breaks, leaving us with only two anchors.

Night has fallen. Nikolai Isaakovich calls for the lanterns. Sobachnikov takes the first one and leans out as far as he can—farther than anybody else can reach since he’s so tall—and dangles it from a crooked finger, casting light and shadows in the area around the third cable. Eventually, under the weight of the lantern, his extended arm begins to shake, until he has no choice but to retract it. The men take turns and struggle, fighting against what I now believe will be our fate.

When it’s completely dark and Orion is directly overhead, visible without the telescope, I find the three stars of his belt. As if to mock us, strong and solid, it fixes him and his sword to the firmament forever. We don’t need forever—we just need the cables to hold until the wind comes up.

Then the third cable snaps.

As dawn approaches, Orion slips down toward the sea. He’ll disappear soon, as every astronomer knows. But on this occasion, his looming departure feels prophetic.

Then—wait! “Commander!” shouts the American. He’s not the only one who’s noticed. A nearly indiscernible breeze has come up from the southwest. Nikolai Isaakovich jerks to attention. He scans the sails, looking for response, but they only droop. Still, each little gust tickles my cheek, and each time, it feels slightly stronger than the last. Silently I urge: blow, wind! If not now, then when?