The Chronicler: ASHES, ASHES, WE ALL FALL DOWN Book Four

The biting wind gusted to thirty-five knots, whipping moderate to rough seas into whitecaps and troughs. Foam drenched the deck as nine-foot waves broke against the bow. The hatches were closed, preventing billows from swamping the hold as the men furled the sails and hoisted a storm jib on the forestay. Preoccupied with securing the rigging, the sailors did not notice what lay ahead until Cabot shouted from the quarterdeck above the whine of the late nor'easter. As the heaving ship fought to turn from danger, a ghastly sight off the starboard bow made the men flounder for boat hooks and pikes. In the distance, an undulating field of broken white announced the arrival of newborn bergs from Greenland's glacial calving season. Here and there, snowy peaks emerged amid the scattered blocks. The smaller chunks of ice would scarcely hurt the vessel, but the distant monsters would send the splintered boat straight to the bottom!