Dennis Wheatley - The Rape Of Venice

Having rounded the Cape, the Minerva spent close on a fortnight beating up the east coast of Africa and through the Mozambique Channel. After clearing the northern tip of Madagascar she altered course to north-​east, in order to pick up the favourable south-​west winds that would carry her in the direction of Ceylon; but now, for the first time during the voyage, she met with really rough weather.

For two days she battled against a heavy cross-​sea. The buffet of each great wave made her shudder from stem to stern, and she rolled atrociously so that any article left unsecured, even for a few moments, fell and smashed, or was flung across the cabins. At times there were downpours of torrential rain, which blotted out from view the other heaving ships in the convoy. Captain Finch took charge himself and was almost permanently up on the poop. The food at his table deteriorated sadly to snacks of cold meat and ship's biscuits, for those who could still keep food down.

Roger was not among them. Quite early in the storm, seasickness overcame him and for the next few days he lay wretchedly ill in his bunk. On the second day most of the passengers, including Winters, who had stuck out the first night also succumbed. Clarissa was one of the few who remained unaffected. She was something more than a splendid sailor; she actually enjoyed a storm at sea. During a hurricane on the way to the West Indies, she had had herself lashed to a stanchion on deck, so that she could feel the wind tearing at her hair and the rain driving into her face. Now, she staggered from cabin to cabin, doing what she could to look after her husband, Roger, the Beaumont’s, the Armitages and one of the sailors who had missed his footing on a ladder, fallen and broken his leg.

It was on the third day that tragedy overtook them. In mid-​morning a sudden squall, more violent than any they had yet encountered, snapped off the main top-​gallant and it came crashing down on the poop. By the most evil chance it smashed in the left side of the Wheel House, demolishing the wheel, injuring the Quartermaster and killing Captain Finch. Thus, at one stroke, the ship was put temporarily out of control and deprived of her most capable officer.

Immediately, she began to veer round sideways on to the great white-​crested waves. It was the watch of the First Mate, Mr Evans. In a gallant attempt to save the situation he ran towards the emergency steering wheel at the stern of the vessel. For many hours no one had been able to move about the deck without using a succession of hand-​holds. Evans paid the penalty of his rashness. He was flung off his feet and fractured his skull against a chicken coop.

The Third Mate then took charge. Having sent another Quartermaster to the stern, he had all hands piped on deck and ordered the taking in of the remaining sails with which the ship had been fighting the storm. But by now the Minerva had swung right round; the sails went slack then suddenly billowed out again with reports like cannon. Two of them were rent from top to bottom and their canvas flapped wildly on either side like streaming banners in the howling wind.

A moment later there came an awful rending sound. The foremast had snapped off low down. It fell across the fo’c’sle, its yards, spars and rigging forming an incredible tangle, and killing or injuring another half-​dozen sailors.

A part of the crew managed to haul in the mainsail, while the rest strove to clear the fallen mast. Its upper part dragged in the water, giving the ship a terrifying list to port; but the troops were called up to help. Under the direction of the Second Mate, Mr. Garner, who had now come on deck, and the boatswain, a hundred desperate hands wielding axes, cutlasses and knives managed to hack through scores of ropes.

The huge broken column of timber slid overboard and the ship righted herself.

She was now running before the storm under bare, broken masts, and soon all the other ships in the convoy were lost to view. Her emergency wheel in the stern was manned, but no use could be made of it until the storm lessened and it was safe to attempt to turn her back onto her course by hoisting sail again. There were now a dozen casualties in the sick-​bay and wreckage still littered all the fore part of the deck. During the afternoon it was gradually cleared, but the tempest showed no sign of abating and the weighty foretop had stove in the port side of the fo’c’sle. From time to time waves broke over the bow and the water rushed down the gaping hole, rendering the crew's quarters untenable, and necessitating the manning of the pumps.

That night Mr. Garner, who was now acting Commander, told the army officers and the few civilian passengers who were not helpless in their cabins from seasickness, that the position was dangerous but not desperate. The ship was being driven at great speed north-​westwards, back towards the coast of Africa, but it was still several hundred miles distant, so there was no risk of her being driven ashore. Efforts to get a sail over the wrecked section of the fo’c’sle had failed, so water was gaining in the fore hold, but not to an alarming degree. He had hopes that the storm would have blown itself out by morning, and, if so, all would be well.

But as the hours wore on, it increased in fury. All through the night the helpless ship was rushed up mountainous waves to crash through their tops and come slithering down into seemingly bottomless gulfs. Each time she breasted one its spume hissed through her rigging, and now and then a following sea curled right up over her poop to come cascading down into her well, filling it for some moments waist high with water Her timbers groaned, her rigging screamed, the hundreds of tons of water hit her decks with a boom like thunder. It seemed to all the passengers, and the wretched troops crowded vomiting on the lower deck, that every time the ship plunged downward would be the last, and that she could not possibly survive till morning.

Yet, when morning came, she was still afloat and the tempest had perceptibly moderated. The waves were no longer white-​crested; a heavy swell now made them look like vast rolling downs, with a blue-​green glassy surface; the wind had ceased to tear wildly at severed ropes and the remnants of torn sails. But things were far from well with the Minerva.

During the night she had shipped a great deal of water, three of her boats had been stove in and some of her cargo had shifted. She was much lower in the water than she should have been, again had a list to port, and was down at the head. All through the forenoon, relays of men worked frantically at the pumps while others laboured feverishly lashing together gratings and spars to form rafts. Despite all efforts, the level of the water in the holds rose steadily.

The officers came to the conclusion that the cargo which had come adrift must have struck the ship's side with such force that she had sprung a leak, but the water had now risen in the holds to a height that made it impossible for the carpenters to get at the seat of the trouble.

It was shortly after one o'clock that the Minerva gave a sudden lurch. More of the cargo had shifted, and increased her list to port by several degrees. Mr. Garner realised that the position was now critical and that with little warning she might dive bows first to the bottom. Calling his officers together, he told them to pass the word that he intended shortly to give the order to abandon ship.

When Clarissa heard the news, she was with the Captain's cook collecting packets of cold meat and biscuits to take down to her invalids who, with the abating of the tempest, were beginning to show signs of recovery. Stuffing all the packets of food into the capacious pockets of her cape, she ran along to Roger's cabin. Throwing open the door, she cried: