Seaflower (12 page)

The
sheet anchor was lashed outside the shrouds, outside the channel, and Kydd was
exposed to the seas. Edging around the aftermost shroud he stood on the iron
curve of the flukes of the big anchor, then swung to the channel and shuffled
along.
Trajan
rolled,
the seas rose and battered and tugged at him. He held the thick shrouds in a
death grip, pressing his face to their rough surfaces, feeling their sturdy
strength.

The
seas fell away as the ship began a laborious roll upwards. It was time to get
to work. Kydd moved outboard of the anchor to the big ring beyond the stock.
He waited for the surging seas to return and subside, then bent to begin. The
rope had a mind of its own, snarling and writhing, but Kydd forced it round.
More seas, but his work held, and when the dripping cable appeared, his
keckling was still there. He worked feverishly, his arm hooked about the cable,
but such was his concentration that when the next sea came it took him unawares
-a momentary vision of the water within inches, then he was submerged, buffeted
by giant forces while he hugged the cable, a maelstrom of roaring in his ears.

He
emerged, bruised and gasping, his eyes stinging, a salty burning in his throat,
but he went on grimly. His first sea friend, Bowyer, a deep-sea mariner of the
very best kind, came to mind, and memories of lessons in the sea crafts, and he
responded. Every working of cordage and cable would be the best he could
manage.

Unexpectedly
he felt a tug on his shoulder from above. Stirk's hand came out, and Kydd was
hoisted bodily over the bulwarks. He sank to all fours with exhaustion, hearing
Stirk's murmured words of encouragement — then noticed buckled shoes and silk
stockings. He looked up to see- the Captain gazing down at him, then his slow
nod of approval.

*     
*      *

The
second bower anchor gave way within the watch. It was terrifying to see the
speed with which they were carried downwind towards the hard line of the shore.
The sheet anchor, however, was ready and plunged into the sea almost immediately.

Now
down to her last big anchor,
Trajan's
company were left with the bleak knowledge that if
it parted then the ship would drive ashore — not on a sandy beach, but on the
fringing reef a quarter of a mile offshore, its presence betrayed by wild
breakers slamming high into the air. The vessel would break up fast on the
massive coral heads, and when men struck out for their lives they would be
slashed to ribbons in the breakers.

The
daylight ebbed and the deck filled with silent men staring across the seas to
their last sight of the land. Kydd went below to find something to eat, to
bring strength to his weary body. It was sheltered below, the manic howl of the
wind muted, its wearisome plucking and battering no longer worrying at his
body.

The
mess was deserted again, except for a small figure, head bowed, sitting alone
at their mess-table. Puzzled, Kydd approached. It was Luke, a picture of
misery. He did not look up as Kydd drew near.

'Hey
now, skinker — light along some clacker f'r a starvin' mariner,' Kydd said
breezily. Luke didn't respond.

'How's
this? Messman f'r the petty officers, an' can't find 'em some vittles?' Kydd
came to sit next to him. The bass rumble of some loose gear slamming against
the hull forward sounded ominous and loud.

Luke
said something in a low voice that Kydd was unable to catch. He leaned closer
and saw that the boy had been crying. He hesitated, then put his arm round the
lad's shoulders. Luke tensed then swayed and rested his head against Kydd.

'How's
this? Pipin' the eye?' Kydd said kindly. 'Not as would be fittin' f'r a sailor,
you'll agree, cuffin.'

Luke's
muffled voice was certain. 'Mr Kydd, t'night I will be in hell.'

At
a loss for words, Kydd could only squeeze his shoulders.

'I
ain't been t' church much - an' that was only 'cos m' mother made me,' he
continued, in stricken tones. 'An' - an' I lied t' her! See, I said as I'd go
off t' work fer Uncle Jonathan away in Hounslow, an' I didn't. I ran off t'
sea.'

Kydd
saw with guilty clarity an image of a dusty church, a droning sermon and fiery
words of sin, sentence and torment. Luke lifted his face, bright with tears,
and blurted, 'I don't mean t' be wicked. When Mr Stirk gave me a grog, I didn't
drink it, Mr Kydd, I threw it away — God's honour I did!'

A
moment's hesitation, and Kydd withdrew his arm. 'You are indeed a wicked dog,
and will probably have t' answer for it,' he said, thumping his fist on the
table. Luke stared piteously at him. 'But not this night.' He paused
dramatically. 'How dare ye have doubts about y'r ship? Is she dismasted? Is the
mainstay in strands? D'ye see the Captain in despair? What sort o' jabberknowl
is it, says we're on our way t' Davy Jones?'

Luke's
face brightened. 'But we has one anchor out only, an'—'

Kydd's
voice turned to thunder. 'So now y' questions
m' seaman's skills? Y’ say that I can't pass a
keckling without it falls off? I should take a strap to ye, younker!'

A
hesitant smile appeared and Kydd pressed on: ‘First light an' the wind’ll have
shifted two, three points, an' then we'll up hook 'n' make our offing.' He
fisted Luke lightly on the arm. "Then it'll go hard on any as were seen
afore not havin' trust in their ship.'

A
sniff, a shamefaced smile, and Luke's cloud passed. 'There ain't much t' eat,
Mr Kydd,' he said, but I'll find y' some - fr'm them shonky lubbers who don't
want any,' he added, waving at the helpless landmen forward.

Kydd
grinned. 'I thank ye, but I'll take a turn about the uppers first.' He felt a
guilty stab at the hero-worship he saw in Luke's face, stuffed his pockets with
anything he could find, and returned to the upper deck.

In
the last of the light he saw tossing white breakers, the anonymous grey coast
behind. And then a desolate night clamped in. He hunkered down in the lee of
the bulwarks, his feet braced against the loudly creaking carriage of a gun,
and pulled his jacket around himself. The subliminal jerk of the anchor cable
transmitted itself to him, and he thought of the keckling deep in the sea, his
work the only thing standing between the ship's company and their end in the
loneliness of the night. He worried for a minute whether the canvas parcelling
under the keckling was sufficient, but then decided that nothing was to be
gained by that, and drifted into a fitful doze.

'On
yer feet, matey.' A boatswain's mate with a dark-lanthorn was shaking him, but
not unkindly. 'Larbowlines t' muster.'

Aching
in every part of his body, Kydd staggered to
his
feet and lurched toward the quarterdeck, almost invisible in the darkness.
There was no diminution in the wind-blast and the fierce motion of the sea was
the same.

The
officer-of-the-watch had his orders: the hawse rounding would be inspected
hourly, the mate-of-the-watch would make his rounds half-hourly and the
quartermaster-of-the-watch and his mate would check the hold for stores broken
loose. The rest would remain on deck, on immediate call to the pumps.

As
they opened up the forward hold in the orlop, Kydd noticed by the light of
their lanthorn that Capple's eyes were red, his face lined. He wondered whether
he himself looked as bad as he pulled aside the grating and dropped on to the
casks immediately below. He reached up for the lanthorn and held it while
Capple joined him. The dim gold light reached out into the stinking gloom, the
noise of the hull working in the storm a deafening chorus of shattering cracks
and deep-throated creaking. As far as could be seen, the stowage was unbroken.
Kydd leaned over the side of the mound of casks to the ground tier in their bed
of shingle, and saw the sheen of water in the shadows, then heard the hiss of
water movement, much like a pebble beach.

'Takin'
in a lot o' water,' Kydd called back. 'Hope Chips's got a weather eye on't.'
The pumps had been at work for an hour every watch, he knew, but that would be
the seawater flooding the decks making its way to the bilges. The red pinprick
flash of eyes caught his attention at the periphery of his vision. *Rats're
gettin' restless,' he muttered. In a heavy blow at sea, rats usually found
somewhere quiet to sit it out; these
were on the move. Kydd
didn't know why, but felt the beginning of fear.

'I'm
gettin' another lanthorn, Tom, mate,' Capple said. 'We're goin' to take a good
look.'

It
was dangerous work: the massive barrels over which they clambered moved at every
violent roll, opening a vicious cleft between them that would certainly mean
crushed fingers or worse if they were trapped. They worked their way down the
ancient, blackened timbers of the ship's side, noting the weeping of seams, the
visible working of frames and planking. There was nothing.

Up
the other side. There did not appear to be anything they could report, but Kydd
felt that all was not well in the old ship's bowels. They returned to anchor
watch on the foredeck, feeling as much as seeing the catenary curve of the
thick cable into the white-streaked dark ahead, and were soaked each time the
thump of a breaker against the bows signalled another deluge.

At
six bells, an hour before the end of Kydd's watch, they heard that the
chain-pump, capable of moving tons of water an hour, was now being manned
continuously. This was serious. There must be a near disastrous ingress of
water somewhere, but the ship's company was numb after hours of hanging by
their sole anchor, and the news had little impact. All hopes were centred on
the morning.

Kydd
could not go below. At the end of his watch he crouched below the bulwarks
again, straining against the darkness to catch the first hint of light. The
anchor was holding — that was all that counted. At any moment it might silently
give way and then, after a few despairing minutes, it would all be over for
every soul aboard. At any moment! But the thought gradually lost its reality
and therefore the power to terrorise him.

Cold,
aching, stupefied by the hammering wind, Kydd slowly realised that he could see
as far aft as the hulking shapes of the boats on their skids. He stood stiffly
and looked out to sea.

'What
is it, mate?' Stirk said. He had shared Kydd's vigil on the foredeck.

Kydd
turned to him. 'Dawn,' he said. A smile transformed his face. They gripped a
rope and gazed out, waiting for the wan daylight to spread. Across the
wind-torn seascape the land finally emerged — but implausibly it ranged away at
an angle.

'We
got a chance now, me ol’ griff,' said Stirk, his eyes dark-shadowed, his face
hollow.

'Show
some canvas, why, we'll claw off in a brace o' shakes,' agreed Kydd. During the
night the wind had backed. Now no longer a dead muzzier, there was a fighting
chance that they could use the shift in wind to sail themselves out
close-hauled. And in this way, they would no longer be reliant on the single
anchor - they would be once more in the open sea.

The
light of day spread. It was now possible to see a jagged horizon, which had
been invisible the previous day, and Kydd knew that the weather was moderating.

'All
haaands
. .
.' The rest was
impossible to make out. But it was clear what was required. Hands to stations
to set sail; Kydd went aft to the helm to await his orders.

Bomford
spoke briefly to his first lieutenant. From all parts-of-ship came the officers
and petty officers in charge of their stations, from the fighting tops, the
fo'c'sle, the mainmast. They were the ones who would hear what must be done —
and make it so.

The
Captain stood in the centre of the deck, his officers straining to hear, the
petty officers about them. 'You will know of the peril in which we stand — I
will not refer to it again,' Bomford said. His voice had a hard, resolute edge
that cut through the buffeting roar of the wind.

'We
will cast to larb'd and proceed under close-reefed main, double-reefed storm
jib and driver.' He looked keenly at the group. 'You will see that this is very
like a club-haul, the latter part - and by this you will know that there is no
going back, there is but one chance . . .'

Kydd
had never seen a club-haul, a manoeuvre reserved for the most desperate
situations, but he had heard of it. A vessel caught on a lee coast would let go
her anchor, then continue to be blown ashore only to pivot around her anchor to
face out to sea again. It was a brutal manoeuvre but the sting was in what
Bomford was saying: there was only one chance, because when the vessel found
herself headed back out to sea, she had no choice — the anchor cable had to be
cut to enable the escape.