This Thing Of Darkness by Harry Thompson Read Free Book Online

lighter hands in the tops and out on the yard-arms, burlier sailors in the centre, wrestling with the heavier, more uncooperative shrouds of canvas.
    A few seconds, and the adjustments were made. Now all they could do was wait like sitting ducks, and hope that the storm, when it came, would fill their reduced sails sufficiently to drive them towards the darkening shore.
    ‘Barometer reading 29 dead sir.’
    ‘That’s impossible,’ breathed FitzRoy. He had never known the quicksilver fall so far so fast. Swiftly, he crossed the deck to check for himself. There was no mistake. You could actually see it falling with the naked eye.
    ‘Hold on to your hats,’ murmured little King, somewhat unnecessarily. They were clearly in for the blow of their lives. Hands closed silently around ropes, rails and brass fittings — anything that looked securely screwed down.
    ‘Look sir,’ said Bennet, ruddy-faced under his flaxen mop. He’d come up on deck as the ship had changed course, and was now leaning over the port rail and squinting upriver to the west. All eyes followed the direction of his gaze. Before the rolling black cloud lay a lower bank of what appeared to be white dust, skimming across the silken brown waters towards them at incredible speed.
    ‘What is it? A sandstorm?’
    FitzRoy reached for his spyglass. Even at closer quarters, the white band across the horizon was difficult to make out. ‘Great heavens ... I think it may be ... insects.’
    As he breathed the last word, the vanguard was upon them. Butterflies, moths, dragonflies and beetles arrived by the thousands, a charging, panic-stricken battalion, driven helplessly by the surging winds at their back. They flew into blinking eyes and spluttering mouths, snagging in hair and ears, taking refuge up nostrils and down necks. They clung to the rigging and turned the masts white. The sails disappeared beneath a seething mass of tiny legs and wings.
    Even as the crew fought to clear their faces of these unwanted guests, the sea did it for them. Thick spume arrived in a volley, borne on a wall of wind that smacked into the port side of the Beagle with a shudder. Suddenly the sails filled to bursting, the wind squealed through the rigging, and the little brig darted forward as if released from a trap, keeling violently to starboard as she did so. The spume thickened into dense white streaks of flying water, the ocean itself shredded and torn as the elements launched their frenzied attack, raking the ship’s side like grapeshot. The sound of the wind raised itself into an indignant shriek, and then, beneath it, came something FitzRoy had never heard before: a low moan like a cathedral organ. How appropriate, he thought - for this was indeed shaping up to be a storm of Old Testament proportions.
    Straining under the press of sail, and foaming in her course, the little brig drove crazily forward, her masts bent like coach whips.
    ‘Another hand to the wheel!’ shouted FitzRoy. No one heard him, but no one needed to: already two or three men were moving forward to assist the helmsman, who grappled with the wheel as it bucked first to port and then to starboard in his grasp. Like a burst of artillery fire, the fore staysail, the thick white triangle of sturdy English canvas that led the ship’s charge, flayed itself to ribbons as if it had been a mere pocket handkerchief.
    ‘Storm trysails, close-reefed!’ FitzRoy screamed from an inch away into Sorrell’s ear. Again, the crew barely needed the boatswain’s frantic attempts to relay the instruction. Figures swarmed back up the masts like monkeys, into the rigging and out on to the violently swaying yards. Even though they were close-reefed, the sails flapped madly, fighting like wild animals to cast aside their handlers, but gradually, steadily, they were brought under control. The storm trysails were FitzRoy’s only remaining option. Too much sail and the wind would rip the canvas to pieces. Too little and the