I get up and stretch and head out. I cross the deck, checking the rigging and gear and find nothing out of order. I do notice, however, some thick clouds building up on the western horizon. We'll have to keep an eye on that.
I ain't got a sea dad, none assigned, anyway, but Joseph Jared always seems to be around when I might be needing some instruction in seamanship. Like now, when I sit down on the capstan, with my own bit of line, he sits down beside me.
"The Turk's head knot, Jared, I swear I'll never get it," I say, helplessly.
He chuckles and takes the line from my hand and says, "Here now, Miss Faber, you just take the bitter end and put it over the lay of the line and bring it around here..."
There are days when the ocean is a serene wonder, delighting the heart and mind of all who observe her with its infinite variety—beautiful greens and blues, mirroring the soaring sky and puffy white clouds above. Seabirds play above the swells and gentle waves, and God lays His hand upon the waters and all is calm.
This ain't one of those days.
The sea has been working up all this day—first the freshening breeze that had a sense of foreboding in it, then the quickening whitecaps whose tops were quickly sheared off by the wind and sent scudding over the darkening seas, then the skies turned to dark gray. There is a deepening of the wave troughs and then a howling gale comes right down upon us. It is a dangerous storm for it comes at us from the sea and not the land, which means if anything goes wrong, and things go wrong at sea all the time, then we will be driven ashore, wrecked, and if any of us live, we shall be captured and stuffed down in some French prison.
It is what the sailors call a living gale, a storm so powerful and treacherous that it seems to be actually alive, driven by some evil force that has it in for you, personal-like. I have the Evening Watch and throughout the watch we have trimmed back sail to almost nothing—there is only the forestaysail up to keep us pointed right, so we can take the heavy seas on our bow. Mr. Pinkham has the watch.
Three hours into the watch and I'm wet and bone tired and looking up at that lonely sail quivering up there, stiff and taut under the tremendous pressure of the wind, the only thing keeping us from disaster. I don't know if it looks quite right, I'm thinking, but maybe it's just my nervous imagination. I wipe the rain out of my eyes and peer more closely at each part of the sail and the lines that hold it. What's that flutterin' there at the foot of the sail? Is it ... Yes, it is! The chafing gear has torn away!
"Mr. Pinkham!" I shout over the wind. "The forestaysail! It's chafing at the clew! Look! The line might part!"
He looks up through the rain and says, "Damn! You are right. Messenger, call for Seaman Jared and—"
But I'm already gone. I jump off the quarterdeck and go hand over hand along the rail against the wind and spray, already drenched and wishing for my old oilskins from the Pequod. There are coils of rope every few yards along the side, and I take one and throw it over my shoulder. I find Jared and his topmen together in the fo'c'sle, looking worried.
"Jared! The forestaysail sheet is chafing at the clew!" I shout over the howling of the gale as I mount the ratlines. "We've got to double up that line in case it fails!"
And with that I'm on the ratlines heading up the foremast to the foot of the forestaysail. I think I hear Jared shout something, but I can't hear what it is. When I reach the sail, I put my hand on the clew where the line is attached and sure enough I can see it is almost worn through where it has rubbed against a bare yard. The line has three thick strands in it and two are already gone. The canvas chafing gear that was supposed to protect the line had slipped and come loose. I think of Muck and his slackers who are supposed to take care of chafing gear. Damn! I've got to hurry! If that last strand parts, the sail will let go and we will be lost! We'll fall off the wind and be caught broadside to the waves and swamped! Hurry!
The sail is quivering like a live thing under my hand, but I manage to get the whipped end of my rope through the eye of the clew and throw several half hitches on it and when I get it done I find Jared by my side and I think he's snarling at me for being up here.
"I got it!" I shout in his ear. "Get this line down to the men on deck and have them haul it in and secure it!" He takes it and flings the coil below. In a moment I let my breath out in relief at seeing the line jerk, then grow straight and hard as it takes the strain of the sail.
"I'm going up to check the head halyard to see if that's chafing as well!" I yell to Jared.
"Wait, you fool! You—," I hear Jared say, but I'm already climbing farther up the mast, up to where the forestaysail halyard at the head of the sail secures it to the fore-topmast.
I get there, check it out, and it seems all right—under a lot of strain but holding, with no signs of wear. The mast is whipping great arcs in the sky with me clinging to it—I must be traveling twenty to thirty feet through the air on each swing.
I hang on and look out into the gale at the mighty waves heaving and roiling and coming at us is ... Oh, my God ... I am not quite believing what I am seeing off the port bow. There are waves, yes, and they are many and huge but there, there about fifty yards out, is a monster comber, a wave twice, three times bigger than any of the others. Oh, Lord ...
"Green water comin' over the bow!" I shriek. "Look out! Clear the fo'c'sle!"
All below dive for the hatch or else grab onto tackle and wedge themselves in and try to tie themselves down with whatever they can find, for what they know is coming.
I hang on without a shred of hope. I have no line with which to tie myself down, I have nothing to shield me from the inevitable. In desperation I wrap both arms and legs around the mast and helplessly watch the approach of the rogue wave. Then the ship dips down, way down, impossibly down into the trough of the wave and the Wolverine's bow is swallowed up. The whole front end of the ship disappears under water that is not white foam but pure green water. Then that green wall comes rushing up at me and hits me hard, so hard, and I ain't in no wave, I'm in the body of the sea itself, and I redouble my grip of both arms and legs but I know it ain't gonna do any good as the wave slams up into my nose and claws at me and proceeds to rip me off the mast to take me into its belly for good and ever.
I commend my body to the sea and my soul to God is what I think is gonna be my last thought, as my hooked fingers are pulled off the mast and my legs let go but then, oh then, an arm of iron goes around my chest and tightens and I am held fast as the wave tears through us and past.
The first thing I see as the water leaves my face is the furious eyes of Joseph Jared a few scant inches in front of my nose.
"You are a stupid girl, no matter what else you believe yourself to be!" he shouts over the roar of the retreating wave. He takes his arm from around my chest and puts his free hand around my neck and brings us face-to-face, nose to nose. "Now get down below and let us do our damned job!"
I look at him through the strands of my hair and nod weakly. He lets me go and I slink back down to the deck, considerably chastened. I could write him up for that. Touching me like that, I mean.
But I won't.
"You are useless to me in that condition," snarls Mr. Pinkham upon seeing me stagger back on the quarterdeck, knees shaking, teeth chattering. "Go below and go to bed. You may consider yourself on report for leaving the quarterdeck without permission. We will deal with that in the morning. Mr. Raeburne may assume the Midwatch, but I do not want the squeakers up during this as I do not want to have to watch out for them. Do you understand?"
"Yes, Sir." And bless you, Sir ...
***
I stumble down to the berth and stand dripping, my body shaking with cold and I say, "Give me something hot to drink," and a cup of something is put in my hand and I think it's tea with maybe a dollop of rum in it and I'm sorry, Millie, but I gulp it down anyway and there's some hot stew and biscuit and I get that down, too. I look at them standing about staring at me as the Wolverine pitches back and forth. The overhead hatch has already been secured. It is very dark in the berth.
"Robin, Mr. Pinkham says you may assume the Midwatch, but you younger ones are to stay below tonight..."
To their credit, both Tom and Ned protest, but I know their hearts are not in it. Georgie doesn't say anything. He just crouches, curled up in the corner, white with fear as the Wolverine pitches and yaws and creaks and groans and slams back and forth as it is flung about by the storm. The lantern is hung above and it swings, casting crazy patterns on the faces below it. I don't blame Georgie—what sane person could think that such a fragile thing as the Wolverine, with its hundred or so scared souls, could possibly survive something like this?
"It is almost time for the Mid, anyway," says Robin, putting on his oilskins. "I'm sorry. I should have offered these to you before you went on watch. I forgot that you had none."
"You are good, Robin, and think nothing of it. I have found that my pride needed a good soaking down anyway, for all of that."
I get up and stand dripping before him, and I reach out and take his hand and hold it in mine. "Take care out there, Robin Raeburne. It is a hellish night."
He sucks in his breath. Abruptly, he takes my hand and raises it to his lips. He looks at me over our clasped hands but says nothing. He turns on his heel and leaves, closing the hatch behind him.
"Go to bed, boys, and be thankful for Mr. Pinkham's kindness," I say, and gather myself up and head to my room. I go in and strip off my soaked garments and wring them out in my basin and hang them as best I can to dry. Tomorrow I'll hang the clothes close to the cooking fires to help them along, but I know I'll be back in my jockey garb in the morning.
I towel off, throw on my nightshirt, whip back the cover, and crawl gratefully into bed, and never was bed so soft and never was bed so sweet. The storm is abating in the way of wind and high waves and only presses my face against my pillow in a gentle way now. It's funny, but when I'm in my bunk, I feel the motion of the ship, of course, but the closest and most personal thing I feel is my face being pressed into the pillow as the ship comes up from a roll, and then not being pressed as the ship falls back down, and then pressed again, so it's like there's a hand on the side of my head mashing me down and then not and then...
And then there's this tremendous Crrraaaacccckkkkkkkk! as a thunderclap explodes overhead, and then the long, low rumble of the thunder as it washes over the ship and fades away. The winds and waves are dying, but here come the rainstorm and lightning and now the rumbling thunder and...
Crrrraaaackkkkkkkk! There's another, and it sure sounds close. Sure hope it doesn't hit the mainmast. Sure hope they've got Doctor Franklin's lightning rod, sure hope...
Christ! Somebody has just crawled into my bed!
I feel the body slip in next to me, and I grab the knife that I keep at my bedside, but...
Georgie?
"Georgie? What are you doing here?" I ask, astounded.
"Please, Jacky, I'm so scared..."
"But, Georgie, you can't stay here, I'm not..." I'm not dressed is what I'm not. Oh, well...
I lift the edge of the covers and the puff of hot and moist air that comes up to my face tells me that he has been crying. Oh, Georgie, no...