The Boy From Ballyclerahan

Chapter 4: The Sea

Schooner 'Fanny', 315 miles west of Valencia Island, May 4th, 1811

Whitecaps ripped into spray, coating the masthead with a thin salt layer as the storm intensified. Despite it being well into Spring, the biting sheets of drizzle saw the sailors pull up their collars and haul their hats down over their ears in a vain attempt to keep the heat in. The crew manned the riggings, readying themselves to scale the ratlines when commanded. Others were sent below to deal with the ever-increasing bilge, fed by incessant waves crashing haphazardly over the deck. The Fanny was taking a beating in the raging surf but Lannon was holding things together thus far. His hulking frame held fast at the boat wheel, with little rest since the storm began two days before.

Jim Reading surveyed the scene. As first mate, he was responsible for the crews' actions while the captain focused on maintaining control of the vessel. Straining to see through the wind and rain, he noted the empty faces of his charges. In the days since Reardon's accident, the crew spoke little, still shocked by the loss of the able-bodied seaman. His jovial presence was notably absent, a joining force which helped bring the disparate crew together. A ship needed men like him to maintain peace and sanity during long voyages, a role Reardon played expertly by lifting spirits and settling scores. But the sea had exacted its toll, at a time when dissent amongst the crew could mean the difference between life and death. It was now on Jim, and Jim alone, to keep them focused and alive.

As the ship ploughed through the next wave, mountains of swell crashed over the deck, submerging the planks in boiling sheets of water. The gale force wind whistled through the riggings, rising to a crescendo as the vessel cleared the current crest and roared into the depths of the next wavestrough. The telling streaks lining the wave faces appeared more frequently now, a signal that things were about to get much worse.

Lannon considered his next move. With towering waves and vicious cross currents relentless now, the Fanny gave little response to his attempts at correcting her course. The options rolled past in his mind's eye, each with merits. Without warning, the rudder jerked violently, savaged by a rogue torrent that slammed into the starboard side. The unexpected jolt ripped the helm from his grip, now spinning like a child's pinwheel. "What in God's name!" he yelled, as the ship veered leeward. Lannon's eyes grew wide, their whites piercing the dark shadow that followed. Poised to swamp the vessel, the monstrous wave towered over the Fanny, its broadside exposed like the belly of a submissive dog. He lunged, retaking the wheel, but his efforts to turn the schooner had only modest effect. Struggling to hold course as they climbed the 50-foot wave face, Lannon's muscles seared in agony, burning from hours of relentless contraction. With only minutes of strength remaining, the decision became clear.

"Get those arseholes to the yards! Stow the goddamn topsails now, ya bastards!" Lannon screamed to Jim. Though the first mate could hear nothing through the surf, he knew instinctively what was needed. The near hurricane force winds made the ship all but impossible to steer. Taking out a few sails might help, but in this storm all bets were off. What other choice did they have? Jim gave the signal and the men started their climb.

The lone Englishman amongst the crew, Wiltshire was first to reach his assigned topsail, lashed to the mainmast yards only weeks before. 'Wilt' was a quiet bloke, a mysterious sort that seemed out of place on the Fanny. Englishmen like him were usually running the place, not stuck with a bunch of 'nardowells' from County Waterford. Whatever his reasons, he did his job well, and this was no different today.

Returning the tempest to the teapot, Wilt wound the reluctant canvas around the yard, his numb fingers fumbling with the gaskets before finally securing the topsail. When all were stowed, the ship slowed its relentless surge into the storm, allowing for a measure of control. Sensing the change, Lannon jammed the boat wheel clockwise, turning the schooner perpendicular to the next wave, albeit incompletely. As the Fanny climbed the wall of water at an impossible angle, its masts aligned almost parallel to the horizon, if indeed it could be seen for comparison. With his blonde locks skimming the water, Wilt tied himself tightly to the crows nest, keeping his eyes shut while he waited for his fate to be written one way or another.