Seaflower (11 page)

Under
his feet Kydd sensed a sudden rupture, a rending crack - and he fell to the
deck, the wheel spinning uselessly above him. Stunned, he heard Capple shout
something about the helm before his wits returned and he realised the
tiller-ropes must have parted. The ship began to fall away, but Auberon's voice
came instantly, bullying over the dull roar of the storm down the main
hatchway. Tlelieving tackles — get going, y' lubbers!'

A
bigger pitch than usual forced the bows at an angle to the sea and a comber
crowded aboard in a mad welter of white, crashing, invading. From up the
hatchway came an indistinct shouting. Quist emerged, grabbed Kydd's shoulder
and hurled him down the ladder, yelling that the tiller had broken in the
rudder-head. Capple clattered down behind him.

They
raced to the wardroom where a group of men stood staring at a wreckage of
broken timber, blocks and a mess of rope. The whites of their eyes showed as
the huge rudder thudded sideways, uncontrolled against the counter, and a thump
of white spray shot up the rudder casing. The deck canted steeply, then reared
up the other way, sending men stumbling and gear sliding. Kydd hesitated — but
Capple thrust forward. 'Clear that shitde for'ard,' he roared, his finger stabbing
towards two of the nearest men, who jerked into action. He pushed through the
others to look at the rudder. 'Get th' fuckin' chocks,' he snapped at Kydd.

The
carpenter appeared, panting. 'Chocks,' he agreed quickly, and together, the
deck bucking like a horse, he and Kydd eased the first shaped piece of timber
into the octagonal opening down which the massive rudder creaked and groaned.
'Th' easy bit,' grunted the carpenter. 'Hold it there, cully, an' I'll scrag ye
if y' lets it go.'

Kydd
held the timber wedge as if his life depended on it. Through the opening he
could see the terrifying white-torn confusion of seas hurtling up, tilting,
then dropping like a stone. The rudder stock swung over ponderously, thumping
and grinding into the rough chock under his hand with an appalling creaking.
Capple and the carpenter tried to stuff the remaining chock into the other
side, but the rudder spat it out and swung back to thud against the ship's
stern. Kydd knew to keep his chock steady in place, but his hands were
perilously close to where he knew the rudder stock would return. It narrowly
missed crushing his fingers, and this time the other chock slammed in, true.

'Out
of it!' gasped the carpenter, and Kydd pulled aside as he swung a big
iron-bound mallet in accurate, crashing hits. Miraculously, the rudder had now
been jammed into its central position. On deck they could use a trysail aft to
bring the bows back on course. The immediate danger was over.

'Spare
tiller, Chips?' Capple asked.

'Aye,'
said the carpenter, and inspected the immobile rudder head where the tiller had
broken off inside. 'Second mortice,' he said decisively.

With
relief, Kydd saw that the spare tiller could be fitted in a lower mortice and,
without being told, he had the men hastily ranging the tiller-rope and
relieving tackles. When the spare tiller had been shipped, these tackles were
clapped on, and they had a fully working rudder once more. It was amazing how
quickly a neat, seamanlike scene could turn into a picture of utter despair —
bedraggled ropes and anonymous timbers and wreckage — and how quickly return to
a shipshape condition merely by getting to the heart of the circumstance and
doing what was needed. He had seen Capple do just that and acknowledged the
lesson.

On
deck again, and at the wheel, Kydd saw that the winds had grown marginally less
frantic, were definitely more in the west. There was no change in the vista of
white-streaked water, horizontal clouds of spume flying over the surface. Huge
waves crested, tumbled and were blown downwind to spindrift. The master paced
down the deck past Kydd, who flashed him a grin.

Quist
stopped, as if surprised in his thoughts. 'Good lad,' he said, against the wind
noise, 'an' if it stays as is, we're thrown clear o' the blow betimes.' He
smiled amiably and paced on.

So,
it was only a matter of time. The old ship-of-the-line plunged on before the
relentless wind. The hours passed. Kydd remembered Quist's words earlier. He
mentally faced into the westerly wind and worked out that at nine points on his
right hand, the centre of the storm was passing somewhere out there in the
wildness to the north.

He
was relieved at noon, and took the lee helm again for the last dog-watch with
Capple, wind to the south-west. By now his eyes were red-sore with salt and his
body ached for rest; it seemed to Kydd a malicious cruelty of the fates when
the dread cry passed aft, TLand
hooo
— I see breakers
aheeeaaad!’

Lookouts
forward had sighted land in their path. Large or small it was an appalling
hazard for a vessel barely under control, flying before the wind as she was.
Images of the death of his lovely
Artemis
crept remorselessly into Kydd's skull. He shook his
head and beat them back. Now
Trajan
needed him.

'Wear
ship - we wear this instant!' Auberon bawled.

Kydd
and Capple threw up the helm, and the vessel answered grudgingly. It would be
difficult to wear around with only the reefed course and staysails, but it
would have to be done. The storm jib was thrown out at just the right moment
and, with violent rolling,
Trajan
turned about.

'Lie
to, Mr Quist,' Auberon ordered, as the Captain appeared, driven by the sudden
change in motion.

Tying
to, sir,' Auberon reported, while Bomford studied the ugly dark line extending
across the horizon. 'We'll never claw off, you know,' he said quietly, gazing
at the endless barrier of land ahead.
Trajan
lay over crazily as the low sails took the wind from
nearly abeam.

Bomford
staggered but continued to observe, then snapped his glass shut. 'Clear away
both bowers. We anchor!'

The
veering crew in the cable tiers needed no telling; the cables would go to their
fullest extent, and in the stink and dread of the near darkness in the bowels
of the vessel they readied the cable. At the cathead in the bow the conditions
for the seamen working to free the anchor for casting were frightful too.
Kydd's heart wrung at the white fury of the seas coming inboard, receding to
reveal the black figures of men resuming their fight.

First
one anchor let go, then the other. The dead weight of the hempen cables, even
before the great anchors could touch the sea-bed, heaved
Trajan's
bows around, head to sea. The effect was immediate.
Taking the seas directly on the bow, she pitched like a frightened stallion, at
one moment her bare bowsprit stabbing the sky, then a fearful onrush of seas
down her sides, before a heart-stopping drop downwards, ending in a mighty
crunch and explosion of spray at her bows.

Kydd
stood ineffective:
Trajan
was now held by her anchor cables, meeting the
hurricane head-on, and therefore his duty at the helm held no more purpose. It
gave him time to look back at the line of land, which was nearer than he had
thought. The constant mist of spume on the sea's surface had obscured the lower
half of the band of hard black, and he quailed.

A
perceptible yank and quiver: untold fathoms below, the iron claws of an anchor had
come to rest in the sea-bed. The motion changed: the high soaring of the bows
was the same, but after the lurch downwards, in the hesitation before the swoop
up, the ship snubbed to her cable — a disorienting arrest of the wild movement
for a big ship.

'Off
yer go, then, cock, get somethin' ter eat, an' I'll see yer in an hour,' Capple
said. Kydd flashed him a grateful smile. He had not had anything since
daybreak: with both hands on the wheel there was no way he could bolt the dry
rations on offer.

Stretching
his aching muscles he followed the life-line forward and fell as much as
stepped down the hatchway. Tween-decks was a noisy bedlam of swilling
sea-water, squealing of guns against their breeching and a pungent gloom. His
mess was deserted, the canvas screens not rigged, so he peeled off his wet
shirt and helped himself to another from his ditty-bag, which hung and bumped
against the ship's side. Condensation and leakage had soaked into the canvas
bag and it was a sodden garment that he had to drag over his body. He shivered
but gave it no more thought.

In
the mess-racks he fumbled around and came up with some sea-biscuits. He
pocketed three, then found a hard lump of cheese that he supposed had been left
out for him. Munching the hard-tack, he glanced forward to where the patchy
light of a clutch of violently swinging lanthorns played on dozens of huddled
bodies. He assumed they were marines and landmen, hiding in the depths of the
ship in the extremity of fear and exhaustion, racked by panic and sea-sickness.

Kydd
felt a warmth of sympathy. They were better off where they were, out of sight
of the heart-chilling insanity of the storm. He would go to them and try to say
something encouraging, the least he could do. Holding on to anything to hand,
Kydd made his way forward in the noisome obscurity.

But
then his senses slammed in. The ponderous wrench at the beginning of the scend
had disappeared, and a comparatively smooth rise completed the movement. There
could only be one interpretation. With a constriction of his stomach Kydd knew
that an empty cable was running now from the hawse. As if in confirmation,
Trajan
gave a fish-like wriggle as she careered astern.
Kydd spun round. He hurried as fast as he could to make the upper deck, pulling
along hand over hand. As he got to the base of the ladderway, a combined twist
and jerk told him that
Trajan
had come up to her second anchor. 'Clear away th'
sheet anchor!' Kydd heard the boatswain howl into the violence, as he breasted
the coaming and came out into the turmoil.

Capple
stared fiercely ahead to the foredeck where men fought and struggled. At every
plunge they disappeared from view under an avalanche of white water. He
noticed Kydd. 'Coral bottom!' he shouted. Coral was a deadly menace: it snarled
and cut thick cables with razor-sharp edges and normally was never chosen for
an anchorage.

A
few yards forward Kydd saw Quist. He was yelling something indistinct, but
ended by stabbing a finger at Kydd, then pointing forward. Kydd grabbed the wet
hairiness of the midships life-line and hauled himself along the bucking deck
to the starboard fore-chains, joining the men at the sheet anchor.

There
was no immediate need for this last anchor they had, but they could leave
nothing to chance. Kydd drew near and was nearly knocked off his feet by the
green water sluicing aft. A cable to the sheet anchor had already been bent and
seized in storm preparations, but anchoring in coral had not been foreseen.

'Keckling
— get goin', Kydd,' the boatswain yelled. A coil of three-inch line was thrown
at him; it thumped heavily into his chest. The seas roared against the side,
burying the channel, the broad base of the shrouds fitted to the outside of the
ship. Kydd caught his breath: he knew they were telling him to climb over the
bulwarks and down on to that channel, to work at the stowed black mass of the
sheet anchor and its cable.

He
looked back resentfully at the row of men, who looked gravely back at him. They
were older and more experienced but would be able to remain safely inboard.
Then he understood: he had been chosen for this job because he was a better
seaman than they.

The
realisation warmed him, proofed him against the elements and, with-a jaunty
wave, he swung over the bulwarks and dropped to the channel. It had crossed his
mind to bend on a life-line around his waist, but if he was swept away then the
sudden jerk at the end of the line might cut him in half. In any case the light
line would get in the way.

The
sea-glistening sides of the ship dipped slowly, and Kydd hung on grimly to the
tarry shrouds. The expected seas came, first his feet, thighs, and then above
his waist. A rushing torrent bullying and jostling, tearing at his hold on
life. It seethed around the lower rigging and fittings with a deep hissing and
roaring - then began to recede.

Kydd
snatched a glance at the situation. His task was to apply keckling to the last
yards of the cable as it came from the sheet anchor, wrapping his lighter line,
and stout strips of canvas handed down to him, tightly about the strands of the
cable. It was their only chance, the keckling their sole means to protect this
last anchor from the deadly sharp coral and keep the ship from driving ashore.