Moon Rising Read Online Free

were thronged with sightseers.
    Battered by the gale, fighting against it, loaded with camera and tripod and precious glass plates, we struggled to a suitable vantage point on the west cliff. The wind pushing us back inland was equally determined to drive the ship ashore, and it soon became clear that the Master of the brigantine had given up the battle and was making for the harbour. Whether or not this was a wise move remained to be seen, since huge waves were battering the pier ends and breaking over the lighthouses on either side.
    On the clifftop we could barely stand. Mr Louvain had me hanging on to the tripod while he attempted to set up the camera for a view of the ship coming in – perhaps successfully between the piers, or more dramatically against the rocks. Either way, he was determined to capture a photograph, if only I could hold the camera still.
    Below the slipway, the lifeboat was standing by, ready to launch from the beach. Folk were protesting, saying it should be out there already, offshore, where disaster was just a hairbreadth away. I could have told them there were rules to be obeyed, that a ship had to have struck before the boat could be launched, but I’d neither the breath nor the inclination to argue. For a moment it seemed all would be well, but then the brigantine was swamped by a massive wave. She came up wide of the harbour-mouth, beam on, helpless in the face of that howling gale. Jack Louvain was yelling at me to keep steady, but I was already on my knees under the tripod, trying so hard to hold it down that everything was clenched, including my teeth.
    â€˜Take it, take it!’ I muttered desperately, knowing the ship had two chances – either she would roll again and not right herself, or she’d be forced to strike the shore. Praying for the latter, I opened my eyes long enough to see her being lifted bodily by the next wave, and another, as she was swept towards us; but I was not prepared for the unearthly sound as she was driven sideways on to the beach. There came a terrible, deep-throated grinding, topped by almost human groans of protest as every timber jarred, as planking splintered and canvas cracked, and seas gushed over the decks.
    Whether Jack Louvain got his picture or not, in that moment I neither knew nor cared. My hands were still clamped around the tripod but I was too shocked to hold things steady. In common with everyone else I simply watched in horror as masts and spars collapsed and the ship sank into the pounding seas. Along the beach, the lifeboat was launched from its cradle into the foam.
    As such things go it was dangerously poor, a case of haste and frustration almost causing another disaster. Those first minutes were agonising. Most of the crew were known to me; two were close neighbours. I crawled forward to see them fighting the waves. Relying on the force of the wind, maybe I was leaning out too far; the grass was slippery with spray whipping up from the beach.
    I remember peeling wet strands of hair from my eyes; I remember my irritation as Jack Louvain shouted at me. Looking back I saw in the crowd behind me a man with a red beard, glaring so ferociously I thought I must know him. In my momentary confusion I almost slipped, but in the next instant he had my arm and was dragging me back from the edge.
    He was tall and well-built; well-dressed too, but that didn’t curb my fury. How dared he interfere? How dared he grab me like that? Jack couldn’t have cared less. His concerns were to capture a record of wild skies, wilder seas, and that broken ship with her crew struggling to survive.
    It seemed we were all fighting just then, the Iifeboatmen having a time of it, their boat pushed back by both wind and tide. They’d barely rounded the second nab, and were still a hundred yards from the brigantine when the boat grounded in the shallows, and oars were smashed with a crack like guns going off. In that moment of astonishment I freed