Seaflower (13 page)

'I
will crowd on her all sail she will take,' Bomford said, ‘by my sign to each in
turn
...'
he specified which signal
would apply to which sail for shouted orders were useless '.
..
and I apprehend the chief peril to be if
the main course is .taken aback.'

The
Captain finished, and looked gravely at each man. He then spoke gently but
firmly: 'I do believe before we go to put our lives at hazard, it will not go
amiss if we put our hopes and trust before He who disposes of all things.' A
scatter of shapeless tarpaulin head coverings disappeared and, bare-headed, the
men of HMS Trajan came together in prayer. For a long moment, there was silence
as every man's thoughts soared to his loved ones, and the chance of ever seeing
them again.

Kydd's
eyes lifted from the deck. 'To your stations, if you please,' said Bomford
quietly. The light had strengthened: it was possible to see well ahead to the
open sea, the yearned-for goal, but the line of coast was growing in clarity.

Capple
stood at the wheel, his arms folded, ready. His was without doubt the single
most vital task. Kydd snatched a glance. If Capple felt the pressure on him he
gave no sign of it, his eyes slitted against the wind, watching the sails bent
on, gaskets loosened, men gathering to hoist — or dowse.

It
was time. One by one the stations waved an acknowledgement, the men standing by
in fearful anticipation. Out of sight on the deck below the boatswain would be
standing with his foot on the cable as it left the hawse — he would feel its
live thrumming, the tension in a direct line to the sea-bed. When the ship had
sail on, had speed sufficient not only to meet the seas and beat them but to
make real way, then the boatswain would feel the vibration die away, the cable
deaden, relaxed at last as the ship came up on the anchor. Then would be the
time for the carpenter to step forward with his razor-sharp mast axe and cut
the cable.

'Helm!'
the Captain warned. Capple gripped the wheel. Kydd would follow every movement
at the lee side, his eyes fixed on the quartermaster. The Captain moved to the
forward end of the quarterdeck and gave one last glance aloft. Then he acted:
the signal went out. It was the storm jib to hoist, and forward a tiny triangle
of sail inched up hesitantly, the white faces of the fo'c'sle party clearly
visible as they looked back at the Captain, ready for an immediate countermand.
The wheel spun as the helm was put hard over. They would use the effect of the
seas seething past to help achieve a cast to larb'd.

Higher
it rose, flapping and beating with the wind dead ahead. Suddenly it took the
wind, board taut: the strong sail in an instant had the bows dipping and the
ship shying like a nervous horse. This was the time of greatest danger, before
any speed through the water was achieved, sheering across the wind and putting
intolerable strain on their anchor.

Another
signal, this time aft: the driver, a fore and aft sail on the mizzen, makeshift
reefing to show the smallest possible area. Kydd held his breath - the sail
flapped and banged, then caught.

Braced
right around, the main-yard was slung low in its jeers, but the lee clew of the
course appeared. It grew, and the first square sail was set, a tiny corner on
one side of the yard, but yet a driving force.

Nervously
Kydd snatched a glimpse at the white seas raging past. The ship began to rear:
there was an uneasy screwing motion. The Captain was as rigid as a statue,
gripping a stay and staring fiercely ahead. Bomford gestured — more sail showed
at the main. Kydd could not be sure, but felt that the motion was growing less
jerky. Could it be that they were advancing on their anchor?

Raising
his arm, Bomford looked all about him. Then, the signal to cut the cable, to
launch themselves into eternity — or sweet safety.

Kydd
tensed, and in the time it took the carpenter to hack through the great cable
Bomford strode quickly back to the helm. Suddenly the ship's bow fell away from
the wind. No longer tethered she dropped away to leeward. A massive roll sent
men skittering across the deck. A cross sea intervened and the ship lurched
sickeningly. Kydd snatched a look astern — they were drifting down on the land.
His hands gripped the wheel convulsively. A growl from Capple brought his
attention to it. They fought the wheel round together, hard over to try to
bring the bows back up to the wind.

The
Captain stood unmoving and Kydd felt a pressure on the helm, a strengthening,
glorious force that told of power and movement through the water. He determined
not to look behind at the land, but couldn't help a prickling in his neck as he
remembered the fringing reef, which must be close now.

The
bowsprit reared and plunged but it sawed a path in the sky that was
unmistakable:
Trajan
was
answering her helm. Kydd dared to hope. A little more of the goosewinged main
and the old ship heeled obediently in response, the seas meeting her bow with
energy and purpose. Minute by agonising minute, yard by yard,
Trajan
clawed her way out to sea, until at last there could
be no more doubt. They had won through.

All
eyes were on the thick-set carpenter as he emerged on deck to report. The pumps
had been at work for some time, but it seemed that he had not found any
specific leakage.

'Sir,
the barky is strained in her foreparts, on account o' the anchorin' pulling and
tearin' at the riding bitts and clinches. I can't say as I c'n be sure how long
afore she opens up aroun' the cant frames, she bein' so mouldy deep in an'
all.'

It
would be the cruellest fortune to founder just as they had found life. Kydd
felt resentment flare and wondered bitterly what Renzi would make of it, what
philosophical edge might make it palatable. There was talk of frapping, putting
turns of rope right round the hull and bowsing tight, but this was impossible
while the hurricane lasted. The wind had backed further and as the hours wore
on there was a discernible lessening of the violence, a descent into merely a
fresh gale, but not enough.

Just
before Kydd's watch finished, lookouts on the foreyard sighted sail, far off
and storm-tossed, but it quickly resolved into a frigate, an English one as far
as anyone could tell, scudding before the outer edge of the hurricane.

'Show
'em our colours,' snapped Auberon. In reply a blue ensign jerked up the mast in
the frigate, proving her one of Admiral Jervis's Leeward Islands Squadron.

Bomford
wasted no time. 'Signal her to lie to, and attend on us when the storm abates,'
he ordered, and went below.

'All
the
haaaands!
All
haaands
on deck — lay aft!'

Shafts
of sun glittered on the grey seas, the wind nearly back in the north-east,
warmth beginning to spread, the insanity of the past slipping away. The men
mustered on the upper deck to hear the Captain again.

'I
will be brief,' Bomford began. It was clear he had much on his mind, and he
spoke curdy. 'I am proud of this ship - I am proud of you all, that you have
done your duty so nobly. If you stand as valiantly against the enemy as you did
against the might of the hurricane then we have no fear of any foe.' Bomford
seemed to have difficulty in choosing his words.
'Trajan
will proceed now to Antigua for survey and repair at
the dockyard, a bare day or two's sail away.' He waited for the indistinct
murmuring to die away. 'But I have to tell you that we as a ship's company will
be transported in the frigate back to Barbados while this is done.' This time
there were mutters of appreciation - the small island of Antigua could not bear
the effort of keeping hundreds of seamen idle ashore for an extended period,
and therefore they would return to the main base with all its lures. 'Yet I
would ask for volunteers to form a skeleton crew to sail
Trajan
to her well-earned rest. May the first lieutenant
see the hands of those volunteering?'

A
tiny scatter of hands rose. It was no contest: Antigua had nothing to offer
that compared with the punch shops and entertainments of Bridgetown. Anger rose
in Kydd:
Trajan
was
now to be deserted by those she had borne so uncomplainingly through her time
of trial. He glanced about. Stony faces met his: they were not going to give up
their chance of a frolic. Kydd threw up his hand — he at least would remember
the old lady.

The.
volunteers were mustered on the quarterdeck. His eyes resentfully on the
deserting seamen, Kydd didn't notice Bomford approach.

'Kydd,
it did not escape me, the contribution you made to this ship and her
preservation.' Bomford had piercing eyes and Kydd stiffened. 'This was in the
very best traditions of the Service, and show you to be an exceptional seaman.
I look forward to when we renew our acquaintance as a ship's company — and
while I cannot promise in the particulars, I have it in mind to recognise your
worth with an advancement. Good luck, and thank you.'

Chapter 6

Trajan
ghosted over a shimmering sea, her sail reduced so
that without an anchor she could back topsails and heave to in plenty of time.
The low, pretty island of Antigua lay ahead, basking in tropical sunshine, a
long sandy beach visible between two rocky points. The dark stone of a fort
stood at a height to the right, and another one extended low down along a point
to the left, dashes of red along a crenellated wall obviously soldiers. The sea
was a deep royal blue, so calm that only a slight swell marred its flat,
glittering expanse.

A
boat under sail emerged round the point and turned towards them, her bow-wave
white and sparkling. On taking in the last of her sails,
Trajan
ceased her live motion and drifted. The boat arrived
and a deeply sun-tanned officer clambered up the side. It took little time for
the essence of the matter to be conveyed: the ship would be prepared to enter
English Harbour.

It
was out of the question to sail into the confines of the harbour: the compact
space that made it a first-class hurricane haven made it impossible for a large
ship to manoeuvre. Trajan would be warped in. Ropes were taken ashore by boat
and secured to strong moorings embedded at strategic points, and all hands of
the skeleton crew manned the capstan.

The
land came in on both sides, but around the point it opened up. At a prominence
further down in the long harbour a cluster of buildings announced the location
of a naval dockyard. Trajan was not alone. The bulbous hull of a vessel
careening dominated the other side, and everywhere there were brigs, schooners,
packets and a swarm of small fry. But the 74-gun Trajan was easily the biggest
vessel, her grim sides towering above them all.

They
hauled themselves further into the harbour. The dockyard was to larboard, and
on a flat area to the fore a lofty mast bore a Union Flag that streamed gaily
to the breeze. As her commissioning pennant was not in evidence, there were no
naval ceremonies and within the hour Trajan was alongside a dusky brown
coral-stone wharf.

Kydd
looked ashore. The little dockyard town boasted imposing, veranda-clad
two-storey edifices along well-made roads. At the root of the tiny peninsula
was a long pillared structure with open sides topped with a wide roof — a boat
being floated inside revealed it as a shipwright's boat-house.

Springs
and breast-ropes applied, Trajan had officially arrived. It was hot and dusty,
but the north-east trade winds resumed their cool streaming from over the
surrounding hills. All the same, Kydd felt grateful to be wearing a thin
working shirt rather than the soldiers' heavy clothing. From Trajan's upper
deck, he could see into the busy dockyard. Black men considerably outnumbered
others, plodding along economically with their burdens. A number of ducks and
geese were fluttering and strutting about.

'Ain't
much,' Stirk said, mopping his brow with his red kerchief. 'We goin' rollickin'
ashore, 'n' not a sight of a regular-goin' pothouse anywheres.' The
close-packed dockyard buildings quickly fell away along what could be seen of
the road meandering into the interior. The cane-fields over the surrounding
hills, apart from the occasional windmill, were innocent of anything man-made.

'Heard
tell th't what y* sees is all there is,' Kydd said, remembering the derisive
talk in Trajan when he had volunteered. 'Seems the Navy is all in th' north o'
the island, an' here just y'r dockyard an' the redcoats.' Stirk gave a grunt of
dissatisfaction, and Kydd hoped that they would not be long delayed. A week or
two to refit, enough to cross the Atlantic for a full docking in England —
then, at last, he would be able to go home.