Kydd (16 page)

Bowyer grinned. “Let’s get yer foulies, then, Tom. Yer on fer the last dog-watch.”

Dusk drew in, but there was no easing in the weather. The wind by the hour swung west, strengthening as it did so, a hard, continuous blow in place of gusts and buffets. Scud raced overhead, ragged and low, and the ship labored heavily.

“There goes our run!” said Corrie, one of the watch. He pulled viciously at a line. “Couldn’t have stayed in the north for just another day, oh, no! Now we’ll be floggin’ about all over the oggin, lookin’ for a slant.”

It was clear that
Duke William
was unable to keep as close to the wind as the other two vessels. She sailed as near as possible but she sagged sadly away to leeward of the newer ships, the line of three becoming a gaggle.

From the main top of the
Royal Albion
ahead a solitary flicker of light appeared. Kydd glanced up: their own maintop lanthorn produced its fitful beam for
Tiberius
astern.

He gazed at the three-decker ahead, working her way through the seas in a welter of foam, rising and falling in a foreshortened bobbing, clawing at the wind. As he watched, the vessel altered her perspective, changing tack to conform to
Duke William
’s labored course, the line now whole again.

“That’ll please the buggers. Now nobody’s goin’ to fetch Start Point on this tack,” Corrie said. A cluster of signal flags made its way in jerks up
Royal Albion
’s rigging, the bunting stiff to the wind. “That’ll be night orders, ’n’ welcome to it,” he added, with a sniff. “Like as not, it’ll come on a real muzzler tonight, an’ then what’s the use o’ orders?”

The rain had stopped, but the wind steadily increased. Inside his new tarpaulins Kydd shivered, the slapping of the cape-like folds feeling awkward and uncomfortable. The odor of tarred canvas was strong and penetrating.

A bulky figure in old, rain-slick foul weather gear stumped along the deck in the gathering darkness. It was the boatswain, accompanied by his mates, going about on a last checking of gear before it was too dark to do so. He passed Kydd without recognition, then stopped and came back. “Gettin’ your sea legs, then?” he rumbled. “One thing about foul weather, soon sorts out th’ sailors from the lubbers.”

Then there was the familiar round of trimming — the tightening, easing, bracing and other motions deemed necessary by the officer on watch on assuming the deck, after which the men huddled beneath the weather bulwarks. The binnacle lamp was lit, and extra men sent to the wheel. The small group on the quarterdeck paced abjectly in the dirty weather, wet streaming from their foul weather gear. The night drew in.

Kydd pulled his tarpaulins close, imitating the others who, sitting with their backs to the bulwark, had wrapped a weird assortment of gear around them.

“O’ course, it could all end for us in an hour, yer know,” said Corrie.

“How so?”

“Jus’ think, here we is, thrashin’ along with the wind shiftin’ all the time, who’s to say where we’ll be at the end of the watch in the dark?” There was no answer, so he went on, “Frenchy coast only thirty mile or so off hereabouts, ’n’ it’s sure enough iron-bound — worst part o’ the whole coast, is that. What if we gets to tack south when the wind heads us? We’ll be piled up afore we know it.”

Bowyer grunted, “Leave him be, Scrufty. You knows they keeps a proper reckonin’ on the quarterdeck. An’ we must have passed this way no more’n half a hundred times.”

“Ah, yes, but we’re talkin’ about a bit of a blow, at night, tide set ’n’ all, and a cap’n who doesn’t know his arse from his elbow about shiphandlin’.

“Don’t forget, we gotta weather the Shambles first — ever seen ’em under a tide-fall? Nasty, black, ’n’ ready to tear the heart outa a good ship afore yer knows it,” he said.

“But —” began Kydd.

“An’ by me calc’lation they’re just about here. Could be right in our course, mates, only a half a mile ahead ’n’ jus’ waitin’.”

Kydd couldn’t help it. He stuck his head above the bulwark and peered into the dark sea fret ahead, the
Royal Albion
’s lanthorn light long since disappeared into the thick murk. In his imagination he could see only too vividly the black rocks rearing up to smash and splinter their way into their vessel, the victorious sea close behind.

At the end of the watch they wearily slung their hammocks.

“I’d keep me gear handy if I was you, mate! Somethin’ ’appens, an’ it’s ‘Turn up the hands,’
 
” came a voice from the darkness. Kydd peeled off his clothes, still damp from before, and wearily swung himself in. The ship was moving more — less of a roll, more of an uncomfortable jerky pitching which the hammock, slung fore and aft, could not easily absorb.

He drifted off to sleep, and a disjointed dream arose, troubling and frightening, of himself borne away unwilling on the back of a huge wild bull, thundering unstoppably toward a great precipice that somehow he knew lay ahead.

Waking with a start, he was confused, disoriented. Lanthorns swayed and flickered in the musty gloom, voices murmured and turned querulous; he struggled to make meaning of it all. Thumping his feet on deck, he felt the motion of the ship markedly more irregular and violent.

“Starbowlines! All the starbowlines! Out or down! Out or down, you farmer’s sons, rouse out!”

The boatswain’s mates moved about quickly, urgently. There was no time to lose. Warm and pink, Kydd stumbled into his damp clothes, then the awkward tarpaulins. He found himself losing his balance and crashing into cursing men half glimpsed in the dimness.

Still befuddled with sleep, he emerged up the main companionway to the open deck. As soon as his head topped the coaming he was into the full force of the gale, a turbulent streaming wind hammering and lashing at him, wild and fearful. In the darkness he could see by the light of the binnacle that now there were four men on the wheel, leaning into it hard, grappling, straining. Spray whipped past in spiteful blasts as he staggered in the hammering wind to the binnacle, where an unknown figure shouted in his ear, jabbing with a finger.

He was expected on the main deck, down in the waist. He turned to
go back down the ladder, but something made him pause. The length of deck forward was barely visible, but there was a furious grandeur in the rise and fall of the entire length of deck, an eager and responsive coupling of the ship with the wildness of the sea. A mounting exhilaration replaced Kydd’s fear, and instead of returning down the companionway he staggered forward along the side of the deck, holding on tightly as he went. It was impossible to see out to the sea itself, but waves smashed on the ship’s bluff sides and he tasted the salt spray on his lips.

Looking up he saw that only some of the sails were still in place, each pale and taut as a board. A strident chorus of thrums and musical harping in the rigging gave a dramatic urgency to the scene. He hung on at the mainchains, reluctant to leave.

Something in him reached out — and was answered. A fierce joy touched his soul. It didn’t matter that the situation was perilous or the ship doomed. From that moment on Kydd knew in his heart that he would be a seaman. He clung to this revelation, taking the bursts of spray in his teeth and grinning madly. The bows would rise, then smash down, flinging the seas apart, shuddering and racking, then gloriously rise again.

“Tom!” Bowyer’s concerned shout and hand gripping his arm startled him. “No need — don’ wait here. Geddown to th’ waist!”

His honest concern was evident and Kydd laughed, eyes shining.

More men emerged from below, whipped and buffeted by the hard winds.

“Double reef — topsails —” shouted Bowyer.

A man grunted and swung himself up into the weather rigging.

“Go down — reefing tackle, forebrace bitts!”

Others pushed past and mounted the ratlines.

“Go —” Bowyer shoved at Kydd impatiently.

Kydd stood and watched as Bowyer pulled himself into the rigging. Hanging there for a moment, Bowyer shouted something, then looked up and began the dangerous climb, the wind streaming his gear out horizontally.

It was madness — but without hesitating Kydd grasped the shrouds, swung himself up and followed.

In a way the darkness isolated him from the fearsome dangers. The wind tore at him, pummeled and shook him, but in his exalted state he
was invulnerable. He looked up and saw Bowyer reach the futtock shrouds, then disappear into the main top.

Downward the deck was vanishing into murk. There was just Elkins, who gestured and shouted up at him.

Upward Kydd climbed, gripping the slick black rope firmly. At the futtock shrouds he hesitated — through the despised lubber’s hole close to the mast, or hang upside down to get round and onto the main top?

There was no choice for a seaman. For the first time, he worked his way upside down to the edge of the main top. His head and shoulders rose above it, but then he discovered that he didn’t know how to get the rest of the way.

The men were gathered in the darkness of the top, waiting for the yard to be laid so they would not be reefing a full drawing sail. Suddenly one caught sight of Kydd, whose face loomed pale against the outer darkness.

“Christ in heaven — it’s a ghost!” he screamed.

The others jerked round.

“Tom! What are you doing, mate?” Bowyer leaned over and hoisted him over bodily. He clung to Kydd as though he would tumble away.

A large shadow against the pallid sail resolved itself into the captain of the top pushing across. He stood for a moment clutching at a downhaul, looking into Kydd’s face. Bewilderment was succeeded by distrust as he tried to make sense of the intruder. The wind slammed at him and his open seaman’s face was puzzled; then his expression changed to acceptance and finally he bawled, “You’ll do!”

Kydd turned to Bowyer, who pushed the lee tricing line into his hands, himself taking the weather. Their eyes met — and Bowyer nodded slowly, a deep smile spreading over his whole face.

In the relative shelter on the main deck below the boats, the watch resumed.

“See yer mate is a regular foul weather jack, then, Joe,” said one.

Bowyer grunted casually. “Yair — expect to see him out on the yardarm soon, mate.”

A vicious squall bullied and blustered at the ship for long minutes;
Duke William
heeled and staggered, then recovered.

“Needs to learn a bit more about th’ sea afore he c’n call hisself a sailorman,” an older voice continued.

“Ah, leave him be, Nunky.”

“No, what I means is, that which you doesn’t hear about unless someone gives yer the griff. Ye know what I mean.”

“No, I don’t, Nunky, what do you mean?”

“Ye’ll not hear this from any else.” The fierce hiss of seas along the hull nearly drowned the words. “’Twas a long time ago, lads, ’n’ we needed water bad. Shipped in
Seaflower
we was, on a v’yage to the Spice Islands, and we landed a party ashore to look fer water. Now, I wuz a green hand, thought I knew it all, so when I climbs over this ’ere sand hill, all I thinks about is water. That’s when I sees ’em! Seven of ’em! Each one enough to set a sailor’s heart afire. Right saucy ladies they wuz. So I sets meself down in the rushes to watch. Then I notices they’s passing around this ointment, see, putting it on ’emselves. So I creeps nearer an’ nearer, and when they wasn’t looking dips me finger into the jar.”

A violent clatter from aloft drew attention until the helmsmen let the bows fall away, and the sail filled again.

“Then I rubs it in me eye and, dang me, I gets so surprised I nearly cries out! What I saw then was they were mermaids. Damn me fer a chucklehead — the ointment clears me eyes and I c’n see ’em plain as day. So I creeps away again, goes back aboard ’n’ tries to forget. Then we makes Port Anjer an’ we steps ashore like. An’ what do you think I sees there?”

“What did you see, Nunky?”

“With me eye treated with th’ ointment, I sees that the doxies walkin’ up and down the street, bold as brass, are really mermaids in their steppin’-ashore disguise. Yessir! Means that any trug you takes on a cruise could be a mermaid — and they’ll suck yer soul out, as any sailor knows!” He eased his position.

The younger voice spoke again. “Can yer see ’em now, Nunky? I mean, has yer got the power still?”

“Well, now, this is where I makes me mistake, being young an’ all. See, I ends up half cut on this arrack, see, and I thinks as ’ow I’d like to make me respects to the girls. We gets down on the job ’n’ while she unrigs, with me eye I sees as ’ow she’s a mermaid! ‘Be damned,’ I says. ‘Ye’re a mermaid, we’ll not swive!’ She gets taken right aback, I’m tellin’ yer. But then she gets all cunning like, ’n’ asks me how I knows. ‘With this eye I has, so none o’ yer tricks!’ I says. But mates, she flew at me like
a harpy ’n’ with her long nails she douses me glim in one!” He sniffed disconsolately. “When I comes to, there I see this doxy — an’ she’s jus’ yer usual fusty luggs a-grinnin’ at me! And that’s as ’ow you’ll notice I’ve got no starb’d peeper to this day!”

The morning came with no relief to the foul weather; the sea was an expanse of seething waves, each with a feather of spume on the crest whipped away by the onrushing blast of the gale. It saw
Duke William
diving, shuddering, her bowsprit burying in the white seas ahead before emerging in a broad smash of spray.

Kydd thrilled to the spectacle. He instinctively knew that snugged down under treble-reefed topsails the old battleship was in no real danger, and he set his teeth to the gale. Movement along the deck was hard work. He staggered forward, the deck diving down and down while he tottered on his toes as light as a child, before the irresistible heave up that made him as weighty as a hippo with legs that felt like lead. The spray rattled aboard constantly, striking his tarpaulins like hail and reddening his cheeks, the wind never ceasing its forceful bluster. Encrusted salt made his eyes sting. It was with guilty relief that he went below at midday for the rum issue.

Even in the close coziness of the lower gundeck there was a swash of water, most coming through the hawse bucklers, which were taking the underwater pressure of the bows when they plunged heavily beneath the waves. Lanthorns swung together, sending shadows swaying over the packed messdeck, the strained, tired men and double-breeched guns. Kydd slid into his place at the table and, bracing himself against the surging movements, let the rum spread its cheeriness through his vitals.