hang on or I would have fallen back.
I thought it was still a pitch black night before I saw that the hatch was battened down. The door was tightly shut and refused to move. I had to force it against a powerful wind. After the dark of the lower deck the grey light made me screw up my eyes. Driving spray stung my face like sharp glass. I found myself looking straight down into black foaming water and had to grip the handle for my life while my legs dangled over the sea. Then the ship rolled over to port and the door slammed shut and I wrapped my arms around a hand rail.
Low, black clouds were rushing past, barely higher than the waves, which were now like small mountains, taller by far than the Tiger.
Seamen were aloft from jib to spanker, while Mr Salter, gripping rigging on the deckhead, bawled obscenities and orders which I did not understand nor, I am sure, did they hear above the cacophony. His eyes were black with fatigue.
A wave tall as the hill behind our Tweedsmuir farm rose up. I looked up at it stupidly, convinced it was going to break over us, smash us to pieces. But the Tiger rode it like a bobbing seagull, rising up its steep side.
From the top of the monster wave I glimpsed a sea of yet more white-capped monster waves, stretching to the horizon and overlain by horizontally driven spray and rain. There was a solitary mast in the distance. But then the Tiger was sliding down into a black trough and tilting steeply as it did.
Four men on the bowsprit, gripping it with hands and legs, were pulling at lashings. As the Tiger gained speed the mast went under water, and when it next surfaced only three men were gripping it. It was some seconds before a head bobbed up, and an arm waved frantically, but then the ship was rising again on the next wave and the man was drifting sternwards. I recognised Mr Treanor, the Irishman. He passed yards from me, shouting, gulping water, eyes full of terror, but his words were lost in the storm. There was nothing to be done and the crest of the next wave took him from my sight.
A sudden gust of wind tore at the ship and she veered to port, tilting almost on her side. 'Get aloft, d'ye hear me?' Salter was roaring at me, pointing up at men clinging desperately to the foremast yardarm. 'Get up there, ye Scotch bastard! Release the foreshroud!' His voice was high and close to hysterical. I had no idea what the deck master meant but he was approaching me, bent double against the wind, with an axe in his hand, and the expression on his face told me it would be better to jump into the sea than disobey. He thrust the axe into my hand and I timed the sway of the deck to run towards the main mast, clutching it with arms and legs when it leaned over open water and the sea rose to within inches of me. Another brief run, slithering on the deck, racing a wave to a ratline, and then I was scrambling up the flapping rope ladder with the master's obscenities barely heard above the wailing EEEEE! of the wind from all around.
Aloft, the Turk, his bald head glistening and veins throbbing in his neck, snatched the axe from my hand and began to chop at a line which was snarling the corner of the sail. It took all my strength to grip the wet spar with both arms, and it was a miracle that the Turk, gripping with one hand while the other wielded the axe, was not thrown clear of the ship by the violent sway of the mast. The wind was stronger here and the water hitting my face like little stones was salt even at this height, and so was spray as much as rain. I could now see several masts scattered around a massive white sea.
Mr Salter was yelling something. The ship plunged until, even on the foremast yardarm, I found myself looking up at a huge wave. It broke over the deck, catching Salter at waist height and snatching him from the line he was gripping. He was swept across the deck and banged his head against the port side. He lay dazed, and seemed unable to stand up. But now there was another wave. The
I thought it was still a pitch black night before I saw that the hatch was battened down. The door was tightly shut and refused to move. I had to force it against a powerful wind. After the dark of the lower deck the grey light made me screw up my eyes. Driving spray stung my face like sharp glass. I found myself looking straight down into black foaming water and had to grip the handle for my life while my legs dangled over the sea. Then the ship rolled over to port and the door slammed shut and I wrapped my arms around a hand rail.
Low, black clouds were rushing past, barely higher than the waves, which were now like small mountains, taller by far than the Tiger.
Seamen were aloft from jib to spanker, while Mr Salter, gripping rigging on the deckhead, bawled obscenities and orders which I did not understand nor, I am sure, did they hear above the cacophony. His eyes were black with fatigue.
A wave tall as the hill behind our Tweedsmuir farm rose up. I looked up at it stupidly, convinced it was going to break over us, smash us to pieces. But the Tiger rode it like a bobbing seagull, rising up its steep side.
From the top of the monster wave I glimpsed a sea of yet more white-capped monster waves, stretching to the horizon and overlain by horizontally driven spray and rain. There was a solitary mast in the distance. But then the Tiger was sliding down into a black trough and tilting steeply as it did.
Four men on the bowsprit, gripping it with hands and legs, were pulling at lashings. As the Tiger gained speed the mast went under water, and when it next surfaced only three men were gripping it. It was some seconds before a head bobbed up, and an arm waved frantically, but then the ship was rising again on the next wave and the man was drifting sternwards. I recognised Mr Treanor, the Irishman. He passed yards from me, shouting, gulping water, eyes full of terror, but his words were lost in the storm. There was nothing to be done and the crest of the next wave took him from my sight.
A sudden gust of wind tore at the ship and she veered to port, tilting almost on her side. 'Get aloft, d'ye hear me?' Salter was roaring at me, pointing up at men clinging desperately to the foremast yardarm. 'Get up there, ye Scotch bastard! Release the foreshroud!' His voice was high and close to hysterical. I had no idea what the deck master meant but he was approaching me, bent double against the wind, with an axe in his hand, and the expression on his face told me it would be better to jump into the sea than disobey. He thrust the axe into my hand and I timed the sway of the deck to run towards the main mast, clutching it with arms and legs when it leaned over open water and the sea rose to within inches of me. Another brief run, slithering on the deck, racing a wave to a ratline, and then I was scrambling up the flapping rope ladder with the master's obscenities barely heard above the wailing EEEEE! of the wind from all around.
Aloft, the Turk, his bald head glistening and veins throbbing in his neck, snatched the axe from my hand and began to chop at a line which was snarling the corner of the sail. It took all my strength to grip the wet spar with both arms, and it was a miracle that the Turk, gripping with one hand while the other wielded the axe, was not thrown clear of the ship by the violent sway of the mast. The wind was stronger here and the water hitting my face like little stones was salt even at this height, and so was spray as much as rain. I could now see several masts scattered around a massive white sea.
Mr Salter was yelling something. The ship plunged until, even on the foremast yardarm, I found myself looking up at a huge wave. It broke over the deck, catching Salter at waist height and snatching him from the line he was gripping. He was swept across the deck and banged his head against the port side. He lay dazed, and seemed unable to stand up. But now there was another wave. The
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