With the storm coming on, Mr. Whipple began to secure the deadlights in the upper stern ports and batten down heavy canvas tarps over the skylights. At noon, Morgan gave the order to furl the mizzen topsails. Hours later, he sent two of the younger men aloft to bring down the fore royal and main royal yards. He left the forestaysail and one of the jibs out on the jib boom to keep the ship balanced. Down below, he could hear the sound of dishes crashing as they fell to the cabin floor. There was also a cry running through the cabin that the ship was sinking. His face wet with salt water and oilskins glistening, he poked his head down the companionway to assure his passengers there was no need for any worry. He looked for Eliza to comfort her, but he couldn’t spot her. Lowery was busy picking up the broken dishes from the cabin floor as they slid from one end of the saloon to the other. Some of the men were still attempting to play card games like whist and vingt-et-un under a thick, white layer of cigar smoke that hovered over their table. Morgan finally caught a glimpse of Eliza, who was clutching one of the poles. She avoided his glance. He could see that she was staring at the swinging lanterns with great misgiving.
One of the black-robed priests looked up at him as his hand clutched the crucifix dangling from his neck. It was the older Father Flannigan.
“Are your men still swearing, Captain?”
“Yes, Father, the men are still saying terrible things, the Devil’s own blasphemy up topside.”
“Then the Lord be praised for it,” replied a clearly relieved Father Flannigan. “We are still safe.”
Soon the Philadelphia was battling into the midst of a gale with huge rolling seas looming up ahead of her. Sheets of rain were now lashing the ship’s deck, adding to the torrents of seawater sweeping across the quarterdeck. Morgan was glad they had filled the steerage compartment with a full cargo of mahogany clock cases and boxes and crates of cheese instead of passengers on this passage. Still the ship was heavily loaded. In the lower hold they carried four hundred barrels of flour, three hundred barrels of potash, fifteen bales of wool, and fifty barrels of turpentine. Because of all that cargo, the ship was riding low in the water. Long streams of spray came off the crests of the waves, and Morgan decided to prepare for even stronger winds by setting up additional stays and preventer braces to reinforce the masts and the yards, particularly the topmasts.
The men on watch, led by Mr. Pratt, struggled up the rigging, the wind flattening them against the shrouds and the ratlines as they tried to fasten and tighten the tangled ropes. To further strengthen the masts, Morgan ordered them to catharpin the shrouds by means of capstan bars lashed just below the futtock shrouds. These were then tightened by means of blocks on lines passed through bars placed on the opposite end of the ship.
“Keep tightening, Mr. Pratt. Pull on those lines and make ’em fast. We’ll need all the support we can. Looks like this is one of them hurricanes from the West Indies.”
Rain was slicing down even as the winds accelerated and the skies turned black. Jagged branches of lightning could be seen in the distance. As the storm intensified in strength, the ship began to steer wildly with the rudder slamming to one side. Morgan gave the order for more men to go aloft, this time to furl almost all the sails. He yelled out to Icelander at the helm to dig his knees into the wheel box and hang on.
“Starboard! Starboard! Meet her quick! Steady! Now. Port, a spoke, port!”
“Fall off! Fall off!”
The ship was riding headfirst into a rolling wall of waves, climbing upward and upward. She soared up swiftly like a bird taking flight and then, on the downward slope, dove into another mountainous wave, the water sweeping across the decks. Morgan watched as a big roller caught the bow under the weather side and the ship lurched to leeward. It looked like she was toppling over to one side. One of the lifeboats had broken loose, crashing against the deckhouse, almost hitting Ochoa, before being swept overboard. Some of the sailors in the foredeck were knocked off their feet and were slipping to leeward, trying to clutch on to anything as they slid toward the leeward bulwarks.
Morgan struggled to stand up as he held on to the windward stays with both hands. He could feel the ship trembling under the weight of the seas toppling on the deck. The tips of the windward yardarms were now pointed upward and the tall masts were leaning over to one side, reaching out to the horizon. The barely visible Mr. Nyles standing amidships, his oilskins streaming with water, yelled something, but Morgan couldn’t hear him over the terrific howl of the wind, the straining of canvas, and the rattling of blocks.
He turned to Icelander, “What did Mr. Nyles shout?”