Some of the top sails were flapping a little in a lull that would be broken any minute—the quietest and most sinister kind of lull in the whole realm of human experience.
Mr. Nelson, the mate, was giving orders. They could see the rain coming afar off across the troubled sea. A gust of wind made the sails strain and the rigging creak in an abrupt, complex way.
Jerome watched, and the spell of the sea was strong upon him. He had no terror left. A feeling of restlessness made him ask himself: “Why don’t I cut loose and ship before the mast?” He watched the mate and felt his cool authority; watched the seamen on duty going intelligently about their work, undismayed by the threatening chaos of the sky. “Yes. I love it,” Jerome murmured. And then he added, half to himself and half aloud: “It’s so big and free!”
The mate wanted to get up to the forecastle before the rain came, if he could, and see if the anchors were all ship-shape for Captain Bearman’s flying moor; but he waited for the wheelman to bring the vessel around into the starboard tack. In his effort to perform this manœuvre neatly, the wheelman spun the wheel so far that the rudder jammed on the port side. He made a futile effort to release it and turned deploringly toward the mate.
Mr. Nelson swore at the man softly and effectively. There was no bluster about it. The mate knew, and the seaman knew, it is no light and airy calamity, getting the rudder jammed. Already the schooner was swinging around before the wind. In another moment the wind would come over the port quarter, and the sails would jibe.
“Run up forward and rouse the other men!” shouted the mate, his words snatched from his lips by a sudden rush of wind.
The storm was upon them—wind, thunder, rain. With her rudder disabled, the vessel lay helpless. And the mate had no more than spoken when the jigger topmast snapped with a sharp crack and came crashing down with the topsail and gaff. The splintered topmast lay on deck, but the gaff had fallen clean of the gunwale, and floated on the waves. Everything was in confusion. The sails were jibing, and the seamen were rushing about, ducking out of the way of the booms.
Captain Bearman came up the companion ladder to take possession of the deck. (It was the beginning of the morning watch.) He heard the crash and hastened, his face full of alarm. But as he emerged, the jigger boom swung round and struck him in such a way that he was swept clear of his ship, and, temporarily dazed, recovered his senses in the water.