Mutiny (10 page)
A broad grin broke on
his face, and he caught an amused look, tinged with respect, from the
officer-of-the-watch. 'Damn fine sailer!' he muttered defensively. It had been
a few years since he had last held the helm of a top frigate, and that had been
the famous Artemis. Unable to suppress a sigh of the deepest satisfaction, he
reluctantly surrendered the wheel to the duty helmsman, who was waiting
patiently; Kydd had shipped in a vacancy of quartermaster and had the overall
responsibility of Cockburn the conn, his rate of master's mate willingly put
aside temporarily.
'Fletcher on th'
helm, sir,' he called, as was his duty to the officer-of-the-watch, the
courteous Griffith.
'Thank you, Kydd.' The officer resumed
his pacing on the weather side, leaving Kydd to drink in the sheer pleasure of
having a live, moving deck under his feet, the sweet curving of deck-lines set
about with drum-taut rigging, the urgent hiss of their progress.
Renzi had been right:
it had been announced that they were heading deep into the Mediterranean on
some sort of venture to bring off a distressed but unknown worthy hiding
somewhere on the other side of Italy. Kydd had jumped at the chance to
volunteer for the voyage, even though for them every ship that swam must be
hostile — and it was not certain they would survive to return.
'Do I find you in spirits, then,
brother?' Renzi murmured, from behind him.
Kydd turned to him
happily. 'Aye, y' do.' A chance to be involved in a romantic rescue, the
prospect of weeks at sea with Renzi before they returned to Gibraltar, and all
happening in this lovely frigate. 'A spankin' fine ship!'
'Larbowlines have the last dog?' Renzi's
question was necessary, for as master's mate his watches conformed to the
officers' while Kydd was back with the traditional two watches of the men. He
was hoping he and Kydd could spend a watch companionably together, as in the
old times.
'First dog-watch.' The forms would have
to be observed: while all the ship knew Kydd's origins, he must now wear the
blue short jacket and white trousers of a seaman, while Renzi must appear in
the coat and breeches of a warrant officer. Kydd would address him as 'Mr
Renzi' on watch, and would take his orders, which, in the immutable way of the
navy, he would do without question.
They strolled together
to the lee side of the ship, Kydd automatically checking the yeasty foaming of
the wake as it slid aft to join with the other side in a perfectly straight
line into the far distance - the helmsman would hear from him if there were any
betraying dog-legs.
'It would seem we are set on a course to
round Sicily and enter the Adriatic, but the captain is under orders to keep in
with the coast of Africa to avoid being seen.'
Kydd was acquainted
with the charts of the Mediterranean and understood the dangers of such a
precaution. He glanced up at the red-white-red of their ensign — that of a unit
of the Austrian navy, their disguise for this part of the voyage. 'Wind fair
f'r Malta, five days north t' Venice, another three—'
'Master says the wind's
dead foul this time of the year up the Adriatic'
'So that lets us get
away fast, after,' said Kydd, with a chuckle.
Renzi gave a
half-smile. 'We have a Venetian gentleman with us in the gunroom who will be
our agent. He warns that we're in some measure of danger: the advance of the
French into Italy is fast and unpredictable, and he cannot guarantee the
loyalties of any.'
But in his present mood
Kydd could not be repressed. It should be straightforward enough: a fast
passage, send the boats in to bring off the fleeing notable, and a rapid exit,
to admiration and acclaim in Gibraltar. They were not looking for trouble - it
would go ill for the captain were he to rescue the fugitive, then hazard him in
a battle.
Renzi swung round as the captain
appeared at the main-hatch. He wore a frown of worry, and searched the horizon
minutely. They were deep into a hostile sea where every man's hand was turned
against them, every sail an enemy. 'How does the ship, Mr Griffith?' he asked
at length.
'Well enough, sir—we shifted three
leaguers aft, seems to have cured the griping.' Kydd and his party down in the
hold had heaved aft three massive water casks to raise the vessel's bow,
altering her trim such that her stem did not bite so deeply to bring her head
to the wind.
'Very well. Do you spare no pains
to impress their duty upon the lookouts!' 'Aye aye, sir.'
A broad vista of royal blue water,
tinting darker as the evening drew on, was broken at the bows by a school of
the small dolphins peculiar to this enclosed sea. They played around the bows
of Bacchante, more like darting fish than the disciplined phalanx of the
oceanic dolphin.
Renzi had his clay pipe
going to his satisfaction and stared out into the blue, letting the peace of
the evening calm his senses, the ceaseless wash and slop of the slight waves
soothing to the soul.
'Y’r battle, it was a
close enough thing, you say,' Kydd said.
'Elias
Petit is no more. A round-shot destroyed him.' The gentle, simple mariner, who
had shared their mess in the Artemis, had been slammed across the deck by the
impact of the ball, his innards strung out grotesquely.
Kydd
murmured a commiseration.
'And Joe Farthing lost
a leg.' One of the few original Seaflowers, a careful, sober seaman of the best
kind, he had been with them in the topsail cutter through all their adventures
in the Caribbean. The last Renzi had seen of him was his contorted body carried
down to the surgeon's knife with the ugly obscenity of a long splinter
transfixing his limb.
'But
it was a noble victory, Nicholas.'
'Of course it was, my
friend, one that will be talked about for all of time.'
'Especially your Nelson
- boards a ship, takes it, then uses it to board another.'
'They are calling it
"Nelson's Patent Bridge for Boarding First-Rates".'
'Aye, and in Gibraltar
the toast is "To Nelson fill bumbo/For taking Del Mundo". Wish ye joy
of y'r prize money.'
Renzi took another puff
on his pipe — he had been able to find the tobacco in Lisbon, the light but
fragrant Virginia he now favoured. 'Um, your lady, would it be indelicate of me
to ask her particulars?'
'Ah, yes.' Emily's
image had slipped from Kydd's mind in the contentment of being at sea once
more, but Renzi's question brought a pang. 'She's very partial to m' company,
Nicholas. We've had some rare times vision' and sketchin' all over the Rock.'
Renzi's
eyebrows rose.
Kydd's features took on
a bashful cast. 'In a cave she kissed me — she wants me, I know it.'
'And
her husband, what is his view of this?'
Kydd threw him an indignant look. 'He's
not t' be troubled until Emily has settled her mind.'
'You've
discussed this?'
'Not as who should say,' Kydd admitted.
'Ladies don't come to it as fast as we men - they need a bit o' sea-room t' see
where they lies.'
Renzi considered.
Ashore Kydd was an innocent, and he had got entangled with a married woman. It
needed circumspection. His instinct to get Kydd away from the situation had
been right, and it would be best to let nature take its course, no matter the
cost to Kydd in wounded pride.
The north coast of Africa, low,
drab, meandering, with no exciting features in its unrelieved ochre, lay to
starboard and would stay there for the next few days. It was the coast of
Morocco, Algiers and Tunis — the Barbary coast that had so often figured in the
bloody history of the Mediterranean with slave galleys of Christian captives,
unspeakable cruelties and straggling medieval empires. All just a few leagues
under their lee.
'Steer small, blast y' eyes!' Kydd
growled at the helmsman, all too aware of the consequences of falling off
course to fetch up on this shore.
There was little
shipping. Trading vessels showed prudence on sighting them; a throng of
lateen-sailed feluccas clustered nervously together inshore as they passed,
while a pair of xebecs came by from the opposite direction, purposeful and
sinister, but showing no interest. They would keep in with the land, sheering
out to sea around the fortified coastal cities, conscious that news of an
English frigate at large would threaten their mission. But it was an odd
feeling, knowing that the coastline to starboard was really the edge of a great
desert with the rest of a fabulous continent beyond.
The forenoon wore on,
sparkling seas as gentle and soft as could be wished, and it was pleasant
sailing weather in the warm breeze. A point of land on the empty coast
approached, and course was altered to keep it at a respectful distance. They
slipped past towards the long bay beyond.
Kydd glanced in the
binnacle at the leeward compass to check that the helmsman was being scrupulous
in his heading. When his gaze came up, he knew something was amiss. Some
indefinable sense told him that all was not right with the world. The ship was
on course, all sails drawing well, the watch alert, nothing changed — yet
something had.
His eyes caught those
of the lieutenant on watch: in them he saw alarm and incomprehension. Exactly
on course and with the same sail set, the frigate was slowing, her pace
slackening little by little, no other sensation but a gentle retardation.
Sinbad. Ali Baba casting a spell on
them. Something had got hold of Bacchante and was dragging her back. The hairs
on the nape of Kydd's neck prickled; the world was slipping into fantasy. The
ship dropped to a crawl, then gently stopped altogether, her sails still taut
and drawing. Around the deck men froze.
A shout came from a seaman,
excited, pointing over the side. There was a general rush to see and it became
instantly clear what had happened. 'We're hard 'n' fast on th' sand!' In the
green-brown waters a dusting of sand particles swirled lazily around the length
of the hull.
The
officer-of-the-watch blared out orders for the taking in of sail; the creaking
masts were straining perilously, but the grounding had been gradual and gentle
and, without the inertia of a sudden impact, the spars had been preserved.
Boatswain's mates
hurried to the hatches, their pipes squealing an urgent summons. Sailors leaped
up from below, racing up the shrouds, dousing canvas almost as quick as the
yard could be laid, until Bacchante was naked of sail. The pandemonium subsided
and the captain threw urgent orders at his ship's company: grounding a ship
brought a court of inquiry, his actions of the next few minutes would determine
if it turned into a court martial, presuming they survived.
The frigate had just
passed abreast of a low point of land to enter the long bay beyond and the
chart had promised the usual deep water, but the shitting sands of the desert
must have blown out into the sea, forming a wicked spit. The usual lightening
of the bottom in shoal water had been obscured by the unlucky proximity of a
river in muddy spate after rains, and there had been no warning.
It was very bad news. The rock-solid
deck underfoot indicated that they were firmly aground; everyone knew that
there were no tides to speak of in the Mediterranean, no high tide to float
them off. Worse, if the French or a Barbary pirate happened along and saw their
predicament, they had but to approach by the stern or the bow of the immobile
vessel in full scorn of their broadside, which was helplessly facing outward on
each side.
The master was quickly
into a boat, and had the hand-lead going steadily as he built up a picture all
around the stranded frigate. There would then be only two options: to bump
forward over the sandbank, or ease back the way she had come. Soundings
confirmed that the shoal shallowed ahead, leaving a heaving-off as the only
solution.
The most urgent
necessity was to lay out the kedge anchor in the direction they had come; they
would then heave up to it with the full weight of the main capstan. This was
the best chance to see the ship into deep water again — it was unlikely she had
suffered much in taking the ground in sand.