Capsized Leadership and the Wreck of the HMS Wager - Part 1

Charles Brooking’s 1744 painting of HMS Wager in extremis

The sea had turned the color of pewter, a flat, gray sheet hammered smooth by the wind. The Wager creaked her complaint at every roll. Lines groaned. Blocks clattered. A steady cold drizzle drifted across the deck like blown sand, needling through wool and skin. The men did not bother wiping it away. They were too tired to fight the weather.

Midshipman John Byron leaned against the rail and watched the swell rise and fall beneath the ship. He tried to guess the height of each wave. Fifteen feet. Twenty. Every crest looked big enough to sweep them all into the ocean. The wind came in long, drawn out sighs, the cold air biting at his face. The rigging hummed above his head like a giant bowstring. 

Vice Admiral John Byron served as a Midshipman on the HMS Wager

He had been at sea for only a few years. Byron tightened the collar of his coat and stepped aside as Lieutenant Cheap came out of the companionway. The man moved stiffly, his shoulders hunched against the rain. Captain Cheap now, Byron reminded himself. The Commodore recently promoted him after Captain Kidd died of sickness. Cheap’s face carried the same pinched look it had held since they left the last friendly harbor. His eyes were filled with ambition. And worry. 

The captain paused near the quarterdeck rail and studied the horizon. He did not speak to Byron. To be honest, he did not often speak to midshipmen unless something had gone wrong. Byron straightened anyway, in case Cheap looked his way. He had learned that a man could catch trouble on this ship even when he was doing nothing at all.

A few paces away, Master Gunner Bulkeley stood with two seamen, checking a length of rigging for frayed strands. The master gunner had the broad stance of a man planted deep in the ship. He looked like he belonged to the Wager the way a tree belongs to a forest. Solid. Hard to move. He talked quietly with the men as they inspected the line, his voice steady and calm. The crew liked him. They followed him without question.

Lieutenant Hamilton came up the ladder with two Marines behind him. Their red coats were dark with damp, but still gave a spot of color against the gray ship. Hamilton was a tall, square-shouldered man with a rigid posture that never seemed to bend. He had the clean precision of a man who believed fully in the order of things.

 

Hamilton nodded to the captain, then crossed to the lee rail to study the sea. One of the Marines muttered about the cold. Hamilton said nothing, but cut the man down with his stern gaze. Marines were the embodiment of military discipline. They certainly didn’t complain about the cold.

Cheap turned sharply and stalked across the deck, boots thudding on the planks. He gestured at a group of seamen clustered near the mainmast.

“Why is that line still slack?” he demanded. His voice carried a brittle edge.

One of the men straightened. “Sir, we were waiting for the wind to drop a…”

“Do not wait,” Cheap snapped. “Do it.”

The men scattered to obey. Bulkeley watched them with a hard expression and then looked at the captain with something like disappointment. He said nothing. Cheap would not have listened anyway.

A new gust rattled the shrouds, and the ship rolled sharply. Byron grabbed a line to steady himself. He saw Cozens catch the rail from the corner of his eye. Bulkeley simply leaned with the motion, reading the sea like an old friend.

HMS Wager off Cape Virgin Mary, Piercy Brett 1741

Cheap braced himself on the quarterdeck ladder, eyes on the horizon again.

The southern ocean stretched out in every direction, empty and vast. Gray sky. Gray water. A world built from cold iron. Somewhere beyond that horizon waited the Horn, the deadliest passage on Earth.

Bulkeley finished with the rigging and turned toward the quarterdeck. He caught Byron’s eye for a moment and gave the faintest hint of a nod.

“We will earn our bread this week,” he said in a low voice.

Byron managed a thin smile. “More than bread, I imagine.”

Bulkeley’s smile faded as he looked back toward the west. A long, low swell was building there, darker than the others. He saw it before anyone else did.

The air thickened, heavy and tight. Byron felt the change deep in his chest, an unease that crept under his ribs and settled there. 

Bulkeley stepped closer to the quarterdeck. He did not speak at once. He watched the long swell roll toward them, watched the way the wind faltered for a heartbeat and then gusted again.

Cheap noticed him and frowned. “You have a thought, Mr. Bulkeley?”

“I do, sir,” Bulkeley said. His tone was respectful but firm. “We should shorten sail. That line of water to the west is not common swell. There is something behind it.”

Cheap stiffened. “I will decide the sail plan. We carry on.”

Bulkeley’s jaw flexed. He held his tongue, but Byron saw the look in his eyes. Concern. Frustration. And something harder, like the first spark inside a flint.

More crew gathered along the rail, eyes tracking the same dark swell. They stood shoulder to shoulder in silence. Men who had crossed half the world without complaint were now quiet as stones. The sea had their full attention.

The wind shifted, coming now in a low moan that threaded through the rigging. The Wager heeled slightly to port. Byron gripped the rail again.

Another gust slammed across the deck. The canvas sails cracked and snapped in the wind. Bulkeley shouted to his seamen, ordering them to steady the lines. Cheap barked instructions of his own, loud and sharp, cutting across the deck like a whip.

Men scattered. Some climbed aloft, disappearing into the web of ropes overhead. Others ran for belaying pins or hauled on braces, their breath steaming in the cold air.

The swell rose again. Higher. Closer.

Pieter Mulier, Storm in the Sea 1690

“Captain,” Bulkeley said quietly, “we can still reduce canvas. It would be wise.” Hamilton looked from Bulkeley to Cheap and back again. He could sense the tension as clearly as he sensed the storm.

Cheap’s head snapped toward him. “I am well aware of what is wise, warrant officer Bulkeley. We are not reefing down for every sneeze on the water.”

Byron felt the discomfort ripple through the crew. Cheap had not shouted, not quite, but something in his voice made men exchange quick glances.

Bulkeley looked toward the west again. The horizon was no longer flat. The sky above it had darkened into a hard, metallic black.

Another gust blasted the deck. The Wager leaned so hard Byron felt his stomach rise into his throat. He clung to the rail, boots sliding on the wet planks.

The swell hit them, lifting the Wager like a toy. The bow climbed and climbed, higher than seemed possible, until Byron thought the ship must turn over backward.

It paused there, trembling.

Then the sea dropped out beneath them.

The Wager crashed down into the trough with a violence that shook the whole ship from keel to masthead. The deck bucked under Byron’s feet. He heard a line snap above the sound of men cursing. 

The wind rose again, pelting the crew with heavy rain.

The first blast of wind hit them like a fist. Canvas shook and boomed overhead. The Wager heeled hard to starboard, nearly throwing Byron off his feet. Men grabbed for lines, for stays, for anything that would keep them upright. The rain became a solid curtain. It stung the eyes and burned the skin.

The next wave smashed over the bow and tore across the deck. Seamen vanished under the white water and then clawed their way back up, gasping like drowned men returned to life. A loose barrel shot across the planks and splintered against the bulwark with a crack loud enough to make Byron flinch.

Bulkeley roared for the men aloft to secure the topsails. His voice carried through the storm like a ship’s bell. He pointed, directed, commanded with the ease of a man who had fought seas like this many times before.

Loss of the HMS Victory, 1750 Peter Monamy

Another wave hit. Bigger. Angrier. It crashed straight over the bow and slammed into the waist of the ship. Byron grabbed the nearest line and hung on with both hands. Cold water filled his mouth and nose. For an instant, the world was only white water and deafening roar.

When it receded, he found himself choking for breath. His coat was plastered to his skin. The deck was running like a brook, water streaming in every direction.

Bulkeley reached him and hauled him upright by the collar.

“On your feet, lad,” the gunner said. “The Horn is only getting started.”

Byron nodded, though his legs shook beneath him. He tightened his grip on the line and wiped the water from his eyes.

Cheap climbed the quarterdeck ladder, his coat flapping wildly in the wind. He held onto the rail with one hand and pointed upward with the other.

“Trim those sails,” he shouted. “Bring her up to the wind.”

Bulkeley turned toward him, rain running down his face.

“We cannot bring her up, sir,” he called back. “She will not answer the helm in this sea.”

“She will answer if the men would do their work.” Cheap’s voice was sharp and thin.

Bulkeley wiped a sleeve across his brow. “Sir, the wind is freshening. We must take in more canvas before it takes itself.”

“I give the orders aboard this ship,” Cheap snapped.

Cheap stood on the quarterdeck, gripping the rail, jaw clenched so tight it looked painful. His hat was gone. His face pale. 

Another wave hit. The Wager staggered like a man taking a blow to the ribs. Water poured across the deck in a rushing torrent. Ropes snapped. Barrels rolled. A loose spar clattered along the planks until two seamen pounced on it before it could crush someone.

Bulkeley’s voice rose above the gale.

“Reef the topsail! Hurry yourselves!”

A topman, clinging to the yard, screamed something unintelligible.

The Wager lurched as another gust tore across the deck. The mast groaned, bent farther, and then, with a long, ripping wail, it gave way. The top half sheared off and plunged down in a tangle of sail, rope, and broken wood.

It crashed onto the deck with murderous force. Men screamed. Splinters the size of daggers flew through the air. Byron threw himself flat, his arms over his head. 

The fallen mast rolled as the ship tilted. Lines snapped and writhed like angry snakes. A sheet of canvas billowed and wrapped itself around two seamen, dragging them into the ocean.

Action at Sea, Robert Dodd

Byron rose to his knees. The storm screamed in his ears. He saw the foremast being dragged, inch by inch, across the deck into the sea. The ship was naked now at the bow. No foresail. No gear to steady her. The ship was lost.

For hours more the storm lashed the ship, but its fury slowly began to lose shape. The winds eased by degrees. The seas remained high but less murderous. The sky lightened to a dirty gray.

By dawn the worst was over.

The deck was a ruin. The foremast was gone. The sails were shredded. Several men were missing. The hull groaned with every motion.

Cheap’s face was drawn and pale. He gripped the rail with trembling hands.

“What is our heading?” he asked.

“No heading,” Bulkeley said. “We follow the wind now. Until the ship gives more of herself.”

Hamilton looked to the west, where dark land shadows hovered far beyond the swell.

“And where will that take us?” he asked.

Bulkeley answered first, his voice flat.

“Toward the coast.”

A long silence settled among them.

The light faded as clouds thickened overhead. The coast loomed larger with every passing minute. The sound of breakers was constant now, a deep booming rhythm that rolled through the ship’s timbers.

The first rock showed itself as a dark spike rising from the white foam. Then another. Then a whole jagged field of them, invisible until the swell lifted and revealed the teeth beneath.

“Rocks to port!” a lookout shouted.

“Rocks to starboard!” came another call.

They were boxed in.

Bulkeley’s voice cut across the deck. “All hands brace! Hold fast!”

The Wager surged forward on a rising swell. Byron gripped the rail so hard his fingers ached. Hamilton crouched and steadied himself, shouting for his Marines to spread out and secure injured men. Cozens knelt beside a wounded sailor and wrapped an arm around him.

Cheap stood upright, refusing to crouch or cling, his coat whipping around him as the ship climbed the swell.

The impact was like striking stone with flesh. A great crunching roar split the air. The ship lurched to a sickening halt. Men screamed. The deck pitched upward as the bow jammed into rock.

The ship was lost. 

Read Part 2

Author bio:

Byron Owen is a Reconnaissance Marine with tours as both a platoon commander and commanding officer at the elite 1st Force Reconnaissance Company. He had the honor of commanding several intelligence and cyber units to include Combat Mission Team One, Cyberspace Warfare Task Group 1, and 3d Radio Battalion. He writes about influence warfare and cyber at keyterraincyber.com, and about leadership at broadswordsix.com