Kydd (31 page)

“What the fuck are you doing?” flared a man at the other end.

Kydd stood dumbfounded, his mind no longer working.

“He goes overside, mate,” the other said kindly.

Numb, Kydd complied, and the body, slithering floppily, went out of the gunport to splash into the bright sea below. He resumed his place at the gun and tried to control his trembling. There would be another broadside soon. At the very next moment another cannonball might blast into the gundeck. This time it might be him.

Stirk stood with his arms folded across his hairy chest, slowly chewing a quid of tobacco, his face expressionless. His calm, his strength, reassured Kydd, whose trembling subsided.

“We’ll settle those sons of whores! Serve ’em out the double what they did t’ us!” Kydd said violently.

Stirk looked at him in amusement. “Yair — and when we get amongst ’em, we’ll give ’em such a mauling as will have ’em beg for quarter inside an hour — on their knees!”

“Blast me eyes if we don’t take all four!” Salter said, white teeth gleaming.

“A pity there ain’t others — could do wi’ the prize money,” Doggo croaked.

The next flurry of thuds produced a fluster of confused bangs and breaking sounds from above, but no rending crashes into the gundeck.

Kydd tried to still his thudding heart. It was the uncertainty, the knowledge that out there was an enemy who was doing his best to kill him. His remaining time on earth might well be measured in seconds. To his shame his knees began to tremble again.

He snatched a glance at Stirk — the same neutral passivity, the unconcern.

Impulsively, Kydd moved closer to him and said in a low voice, “Toby, how c’n you — I mean, why doesn’t it . . .” He tailed off, feeling his face burning.

Stirk frowned. “Yeah — I know what yer mean, mate.” Idly stroking the top of the massive gun, Stirk went on, “Fair time ago, when I was a nipper, I shipped in
Terrier
sloop, out east. There was a yellow bugger, name o’ Loola, in the fo’c’sle wi’ us.” He smiled briefly. “Weren’t much chop as a seaman, ’n’ he useta pray at this ’eathen god thing ’e ’ad, with a big belly and fool expression, but ’e ’ad his life squared away right pretty, answers fer everything. ’N’ he said somethin’ savvy that I never forget, ever. ’E said as ’ow it’s dead certain yer’ll get yours one day, but yer never gonna know what that day is when yer wakes up in the mornin’.” He coughed self-consciously. “But yer ’as to know that if it
is
the day, then yer faces what comes like a hero-and if it
ain’t
the day, then it’s a waste o’ yer life worryin’ about it.”

A few moments later the ragged strike of a broadside came, this time with no solid impacts sensed through the deck.

“Firin’ at the rigging, they do,” Stirk said derisively. “Thinks they’ll cripple us so’s they can skin out.”

Taking a deep breath, Kydd felt his fear recede. He straightened, and ventured a smile. “Shy bastards — can’t take a mill man to man!”

Stirk studied him and nodded.

Another spasm of cannon fire banged out. The noise was appreciably nearer now, and the sound of balls striking above had a vicious quality.

A boatswain’s mate appeared at the fore hatch. “Sail trimmers aloft!”

Kydd realized that this included him. He ran up the hatchways, aware that he would now be facing a hail of shot unprotected in the rigging.

He was shocked by the disorder on deck. In place of the neatly squared and precisely trimmed appearance of the decks, there was a wasteland of debris — blocks fallen from aloft, some with lines still reeved through them, unidentifiable fragments of splintered wood and unraveled rope. Long gouges in the decking told of the brutal impact of iron on wood.

Looking up, Kydd saw that with the angle of strike of the balls several sails could be pierced at once, and there seemed to be holes everywhere in the sails aloft.

“Get going, lads, fore tops’l yard’s taken a knock,” the boatswain said. Directly above, Kydd saw that the outer third of the spar was hanging at an angle where a shot had mutilated the yard, and the topsail flapped in disorder under it.

He swung into the foreshrouds, cringing at the threat of another broadside in the rigging — but remembering Stirk’s words, he thrust it brutally from his mind. As he climbed he looked to see where the French ships were. There they bore, strung out in a widely separated line passing across their bows. They were shockingly close, a bare mile away, while their own ships closed in roughly abreast of each other.

Royal Albion
and
Tiberius
were ahead of
Duke William
and would soon fall upon the enemy, while the last French vessel, a large threedecker, would apparently be their opponent. The afternoon breeze had picked up and there was now no chance for the French to avoid action. Kydd reached the foretop and stood waiting for orders while others arrived next to him. A pair of capstan bars would be used in fishing the topsail yard, and he was one of the party assigned to perform the outboard lashing. A sullen bellow of guns rolled across the water. The third enemy battleship disappeared behind a wall of gunsmoke as she fired on
the nearer
Tiberius,
but this time the smoke clouds dissipated, rolling slowly downwind.

On
Duke William’s
poop, fifes and drums began a jaunty, defiant tune — a
thumpity thump, thumpity thump
rhythm:

The gunas of the last French ship in line broke out in a thunderous roar and almost immediately the assault struck.

Unseen missiles slapped through sails and parted ropes — the whirring of chain shot was unmistakable, the two links sliding apart and whirling around through the air in an unstoppable scythe of death. They caught one man climbing around the futtock shrouds, effortlessly cutting him in half. The torso fell silently. A ball slammed past the side of the foretop, its passage so violent that it sent a man staggering over the edge, his scream instantly cut off when his body broke over a carronade below, scattering the gun crew. A twang and thrum of impacts on taut ropes and the onslaught was over. Kydd stirred from his frozen position, heady with the realization that he was spared. This was not to be his day for eternity.

“Pass the bloody lashing, then!” the boatswain’s mate yelled from the top. His voice cracked falsetto with tension.

Kydd passed the seizing as fast as he could — the others tumbled into the shrouds and made the deck as he finished. He thought of Bowyer and made the lashing a good, tight, seaman-like one before he joined them. For no reason at all, a startlingly clear image of Guildford’s High Street overlaid his vision — the sun out, the street streaming with gentlemen and their ladies, beggars, and children with their whipping tops and hobbyhorses playing outside the red brick Holy Trinity church.

The noise and smoke increased. The French were near, very near. Kydd heard a smart tap on the foremast as he completed and reached the foretop. Looking down, he saw a musketball rolling spent across the top. On impulse he picked up the flattened disk and put it in his pocket before sliding dizzyingly down the backstay to the deck.

A last look showed the enemy only a few hundred yards away, and their own bows beginning their swing finally to place their ship side by side with the looming three-decker. With a thrill of excitement Kydd knew that the time for real battle had arrived, and he clattered down the ladders at a rush.

Just as he arrived on the lower gundeck there was a roar of cheering as the great thirty-two-pounders opened up with a mind-numbing slam of sound. The deck instantly choked with smoke blown back in the gunports, thick acrid wreaths that caught him in the throat. He stumbled into Lockwood, disoriented. The smoke began to clear with the strengthening breeze and he caught sight of his gun, the figures of the crew emerging, Doggo’s shapeless hat unmistakable.

Stirk’s eyes gleamed — his concentrated expression had a ferocious intensity. The gun crew moved fast and economically on the reload. Kydd and Cullen hurried the shot cradle to the muzzle, lifting the deadly iron sphere into the hot maw.

Through the gunport the enemy ship was clearly visible across the narrowing gap of water, and for a split second Kydd took in the black and yellow hull darkening the frame of the port. There was debris falling in the water alongside it from their own cannon strike and he was aware of countless gun muzzles staring at him.

Velasquez’s ramrod cut across his gaze as he plied it, his movements skilled and rapid, savage joy in his face.

Kydd went to the shot garland around the main hatch and rolled a ball on to the cradle. Standing on the grating was a ship’s boy, his ears bound and his eyes enormously big and bright. He clutched his cartridge box to him like a teddy bear, his strong little legs bare to the toes. Kydd smiled encouragingly at him, but there was no response in the solemn, wide-eyed face.

They faced about just as the enemy replied. The noise was fantastic, for their own guns spoke at the same time, the crashing thunder seeming to go on forever as the guns played up and down the sides of the two great vessels. No more than a hundred yards away now, they couldn’t miss, and Kydd knew that through the choking smoke their own ship-smashers would be doing deadly work.

Splintering crashes and screams somewhere in the gloom told of where the enemy shot had found its mark. As the smoke cleared he
noticed a strange pattern of daylight two guns down, then saw that the ship’s side between the gunports was missing.

Behind it a seaman sat on the deck, staring at his right arm, which was now no more than a stick, the blood coursing steadily down from it. He watched it with a puzzled frown, then slowly pitched forward.

A rhythmic tearing gasp nearby made Kydd wheel round. A man was lying on his side, hands clutching a long jagged wound in his inner thigh, trying painfully to drag himself toward the hatchway. He left a bloody trail.

Cantlow appeared from aft. His white face stared sightlessly. Pushing past Kydd, he made his way forward aimlessly.

Shouts and cheers penetrated the general noise, clear through the sharp ringing in Kydd’s ears. Wildly thirsty, parched by the metallic-tasting powder smoke, he went to the scuttled butt of water amidships and ladled out a dipper of cool sweet nectar.

Again the gun crew rolled a shot into the muzzle and stepped back quickly. The French were now no more than a few dozen yards away, their harsh yells alien to the ear. They were answered with equal venom by the British seamen.

Velasquez spun like a dancer and sent the ramrod spinning in. But then he pirouetted and fell, the ugly tear of a musketball wound in his back.

Stirk bawled obscenely as he leaped forward and carried the writhing man tenderly to the rear.

“Double shotting!” Stirk roared. There would be two balls to one shot, the effect on accuracy greatly outweighed by the doubling of killing power. Their next ball was already on the cradle and they rushed it forward.

Stirk didn’t wait for firing orders — this was a smashing match and only the faster crews would win. There was no need to sight. He jerked on the gunlock lanyard. The gun bellowed and slammed to the rear with increased recoil, the breeching rope twanging dangerously.

Through a freak break in the smoke Kydd could see the enemy side. It shuddered visibly under the impact of their double shot and a massive hole appeared magically in the center of his vision. Before the smoke closed in he saw that the enemy guns were still not run out and there seemed to be some sort of jerky activity behind the ports.

The other ship was less than fifteen feet away and when they came together the massive grinding impact sent Kydd staggering. The smoke drifted away and there was the enemy side within touching distance — pockmarked, splintered and with blood running down the side in thin streams from a rent in her sides.

Raging shouts burst out. The enemy seamen were feet away only and with bull roars the British seamen attacked them even through the ports, with ramrods and anything that came to hand: battering, smashing, killing. Cooler hands raced to the arms chest and the flash and bang of pistols stabbed the smoky gloom.

“
Awaaay,
boarders!” Lockwood’s voice was hoarse. He stood with his sword out, his uniform grimed with powder smoke, eyes reddened.

Seamen nominated for the task ran for the hatchway, snatching pistols and cutlasses as they left.

Kydd turned back to the mêlée. Opposite, the enemy gunport framed a stout man with a mustache, who gestured violently with his ramrod.

Kydd remembered the cruelty of the French cavalry. Dropping the shot cradle, he ran over to the pistol chest and grabbed a weapon. It felt heavy and cold. Cocking it haphazardly, he aimed past the heads of the working gun crew at the man and banged off the pistol. It bucked viciously in his hand. Stirk and his men turned in surprise but, to his intense satisfaction, Kydd saw the man clutch at his face and drop out of sight.

Duke William
had not quite come to a standstill, the enemy’s side slipping past at a walking pace. Stirk’s gun crashed out again, the crew working like madmen on the reload. Kydd’s back and arms felt a burning ache, his efforts at the oars still taking their toll.

Another crunching impact brought long sounds of splintering. The enemy guns began firing again — but they were many fewer.

Kydd felt a peculiar exultation, a rising of blood lust, a call from his Briton forebears. He shrieked defiance as he worked.

A man staggered in a circle, a jagged spear protruding from the side of his chest. He turned and fell and Kydd saw that it was an oaken splinter torn from the deck and driven into him. The man writhed and flopped, and almost in a trance Kydd turned back to the job in hand.

The
Royal Billys
ran out the gun but suddenly the enemy beakhead was passing from view, a figurehead of a virago with a conical hat and
clasping a spear, then empty sea. They had gone past their opponent without coming to a stop.