More to the point, the change in motion had alerted Yairley to the change in wind direction and brought him back on deck, and if the wind continued to back, they could be in serious trouble.
It was impossible even for a seaman of his experience to know exactly how far east he’d managed to get, but he strongly suspected it hadn’t been far enough. If his estimate was correct, they were almost directly due south of the Garfish Bank, the hundred and fifty-mile-long barrier of rock and sand which formed the eastern bound of Scrabble Sound. Langhorne only knew how many ships had come to grief on the bank, and the speed with which the wind had backed was frightening. If it continued at the present rate, it would be setting directly towards the bank within the hour, and if that happened…
The wind did continue to swing towards the east, and its rate of change actually increased. It might- possibly-have dropped in strength, but the malice of its new direction more than compensated for that minor dispensation, Yairley thought grimly. The rapid change in direction hadn’t done a thing for the ship’s motion, either; Destiny was corkscrewing more violently than ever as the waves rolled in now from broad on her larboard quarter, and the pumps were clanking for five minutes every hour as the ship labored. The intake didn’t concern him particularly-every ship’s seams leaked a little as her limber hull worked and flexed in weather like this, and some water always found its way in through gunports and hatches, however tightly they were sealed-but the wild vista of the storm-threshed night’s spray and foam was even more confused and bewildering than it had been before.
And unless he missed his guess, his ship’s bowsprit was now pointed directly at Garfish Bank.
We’re not going to get far enough to the east no matter what we do, he thought grimly. That only leaves west. Of course, there are problems with that, too, aren’t there?
He considered it for a moment more, looking at the sails, considering the sea state and the strength of the howling wind, and made his decision.
“Call the hands, Master Symkee! We’ll put her on the larboard tack, if you please!”
Sir Dunkyn Yairley stood gazing into the dark and found himself wishing the earlier, continuous displays of lightning hadn’t decided to take themselves elsewhere. He could see very little, although with the amount and density of the wind-driven spray, it probably wouldn’t have mattered if he’d had better light, he admitted. But what he couldn’t see, he could still feel, and he laid one hand on Destiny ’s bulwark, closed his eyes, and concentrated on the shock-like impacts of the towering waves.
Timing, a small corner of his brain thought distantly. It’s always a matter of timing.
He was unaware of the white-faced, nauseated twelve-year-old midshipman who stood watching his closed eyes and thoughtful expression with something very like awe. And he was only distantly aware of the seamen crouching ready at the staysails’ tacks and sheets in the lee of the bulwarks and hammock nettings, taking what shelter they could while they kept their eyes fixed on their officers. What he needed to accomplish was a straightforward maneuver, but under these conditions of wind and weather even a small error could lead to disaster.
The waves rolled in, and he felt their rhythm settling into his own flesh and sinew. The moment would come, he thought. It would come and “Starboard your helm!” he heard himself bark. His own order came almost as a surprise, the product of instinct and subliminal timing at least as much as of conscious thought. “Lay her on the larboard tack-as close to south-by-west as you can!”
“Aye, aye, Sir!”
Destiny ’s double wheel turned to the left as all four helmsmen heaved their weight on the spokes. The tiller ropes wrapped around the wheel’s barrel turned the tiller to the right in response, which kicked the rudder to the left, and the galleon began turning to larboard. The turn brought her broadside on to the seas still pounding in from the south-southwest, but Yairley’s seaman’s sense had served him well. Even as she began her turn, one of the crashing seas rolled up under her larboard quarter at almost the perfect moment, lifting her stern and helping to force her around before the next wave could strike.
“Off sheets and tacks!” It was Lathyk’s voice from forward.
Yairley opened his eyes once more, watching as his ship fought around through the maelstrom of warring wind and wave in a thunder of canvas and water and a groan of timbers. The next mighty sea came surging in, taking her hard on the larboard beam, bursting over the hammock nettings in green and white fury, and the galleon rolled wildly, tobogganing down into the wave’s trough while her mastheads spiraled in dizzying circles against the storm-sick heavens. Yairley felt the lifeline hammering at his chest, heard the sound of young Zhones’ retching even through all that mad tumult, but she was coming round, settling on her new heading.
“Meet her!” he shouted.
“Sheet home!” Lathyk bellowed through his speaking trumpet.
Destiny ’s bow buried itself in the next wave. White water exploded over the forecastle and came sluicing aft in a gray-green wall. Two or three seamen went down, kicking and spluttering as they lost their footing and were washed into the scuppers before their lifelines came up taut, but the sheets were hardened in as the ship came fully round on her new heading. Her bowsprit climbed against the sky, rising higher and higher as her bows came clear of the smother of foam and gray-green water, and Yairley breathed a sigh of relief as she reached the top of the wave and then went driving down its back with an almost exuberant violence.
Showing only her fore-and-aft staysails, she could actually come a full two points closer to the wind than she could have under square sails, and Yairley watched the swaying compass card as the helmsmen eased the wheel. It gimbaled back and forth as the men on the wheel picked their way through the tumult of wind and wave, balancing the thrust and set of her canvas against the force of the seas.
“South-sou’west’s as near as she’ll come, Sir!” the senior man told him after a minute or two, and he nodded.
“Keep her so!” he shouted back.
“Aye, aye, Sir!”
The ship’s plunging motion was more violent than it had been running before the wind. He heard the explosive impact as her bow met each succeeding wave, and the shocks were harder and more jarring, but the corkscrew roll had been greatly reduced as she headed more nearly into the seas. Spray and green water fountained up over her bow again and again, yet she seemed to be taking it well, and Yairley nodded again in satisfaction then turned to look out over the tumbling waste of water once more.
Now to see how accurate his position estimate had been.
The day which had turned into night dragged on towards day once more, and the wind continued to howl. Its force had lessened considerably, but it was still blowing at gale force, with wind speeds above forty miles per hour. The seas showed less moderation, although with the falling wind that had to come eventually, and Yairley peered about as the midnight murk turned slowly, slowly into a hard pewter dawn under purple-black clouds. The rain had all but ceased, and he allowed himself a cautious, unobtrusive breath of optimism as visibility ever so gradually increased. He considered making more sail-with the current wind he could probably get double- or triple-reefed topsails and courses on her-but he’d already added the main topgallant staysail, the main topmast staysail, and the mizzen staysail. The fore-and-aft sails provided less driving power than the square sails would have, but they let him stay enough closer to the wind to make good a heading of roughly south-southwest. The further south-and west, of course, but especially south- he could get, the better, and “Breakers!” The shout came down from above, thin and lost through the wail of wind. “Breakers on the starboard quarter!”
Yairley wheeled in the indicated direction, staring intently, but the breakers were not yet visible from deck level. He looked around and raised his voice.
“Main topmast, Master Aplyn-Ahrmahk! Take a glass. Smartly, now!”
“Aye, Sir!”
The youthful ensign leapt into the weather shrouds and went scampering up the ratlines to the topmast
