Seaflower (43 page)

'Haaands
to shorten sail!' They could not run any more.

'Cec—'
He could think of nothing to say, and she pulled herself away and staggered
over the deck to the after hatchway; one last long look, and she disappeared
below to face whatever unseen madness was in store.

Lifelines
rigged fore and aft, square sails struck, lines prepared for trapping, pumps
checked — there was not much they could achieve in their little ship. Kydd
remembered the violence of a hurricane from the decks of a ship ten times the
size. In this they would not survive, but they could meet their fate with
courage and dignity.

They
lost dead reckoning when the horizon closed about them in a welter of white:
from now on they might be anywhere, flying endlessly from nowhere into nothing
in the cruel and uncaring storm.

Kydd
remembered a true storm being painted by his first sea friend, so long ago: it
was seared on his memory. 'Comes a time when yer knows that there's a chance
yer might not live — sea jus' tears at the barky like it was an animal, no
mercy a-tall.' Bowyer's iron-grey deep-sea mariner's appearance had reassured
him then, but now .. .

The
moaning wind turned to a banshee ululation, driving spray into Kydd's face with
a stinging spite that made it almost impossible to see. Merrick levered himself
aft, shouting in the ear of every seaman he could find.

In
turn he came to Kydd. It was the closing act. The last remaining scraps of sail
would shortly be torn away and with it any control over their fate. Seaflower was
going to stream a sea-anchor, this was a drag on a line over the bows that
would bring them around, bows to the sheeting chaos, the final move. Kydd's
part would be to bring them up into the wind at the right moment, after which
his role as quartermaster of Seaflower would no longer have any meaning.

The
tiller had relieving tackles seized to its end: Kydd could dimly perceive, crouched
on the deck, the hunched bodies of the seamen who must haul on these. Through
salt-sore eyes in the screaming wind, he made out the jerking figures of those
working in the bows. Seas smashed in, burying them under white torrents.

A
hand waved: Kydd sensed the seas then flung his arm at the larboard men. They
hauled and fell, staggering and fighting at the tackle, but the bows came round
into the blast. The scrap of canvas met the wind end-on and flogged itself to
death in an instant, but Seaflower's bow remained headed faithfully into the
tempest.

It
could not last. At the point when sky and sea were unrecognisable apart, the
sea-anchor gave way. Seaflower's bows rose like a frightened horse, then fell
away in a sickening wallow, the vessel now free of any constraint.

Kydd
was aware that, beside him, Merrick was fumbling: he was casting loose his
lashing, his life-line. The boatswain clawed his way forward, a hopeless,
heroic thing, for Seaflower, it seemed, was now more under water than above.
Nearly to the fo'c'sle he was taken by a wave. Clinging to the side he was
mercilessly battered by the waterfall until his grip was broken and he was
dragged into the rage of sea. Kydd caught sight of him only once as he sped
past, the boatswain's face a frozen rictus of puzzlement as he went to his
death.

A
numb, unreal feeling crept over Kydd, paradoxically insulating him from the
insanity. Intellectually he knew that once the blast caught Seaflower broadside
on, she would roll over, perhaps once, twice, then all life in her would be
extinguished, all the struggling, all the care, the pity — all would be over.
Then a dark lump intruded itself into his vision, clawing across the deck to
him. In these last moments left to them he pulled Cecilia to him, her lovely
dark hair now plastered across her skull, the dress a torn and useless rag. He
felt her trembling violently as he passed his life-line around them both and
gulped at the sheer unfairness of it, that such an innocent should suffer a
sailor's lonely end.

Seaflower's
bow swayed off wind: instantly the blast took her and she staggered, beaten.
She began a roll, her high side caught more of the hurricane and the roll
increased, faster and faster - Kydd hung from his life-line as the leeward seas
rushed to meet them. He turned to Cecilia's upturned face and pantomimed a huge
breath. She seemed to understand but then the seas engulfed them both in a
roaring, endless finality that was strangely peaceful: they could no longer
hear the murderous hurricane.

He
felt Cecilia struggle. In the dreamy underwater peace he knew that she was
drowning. He bent his head and forced his breath into her mouth, and prepared
for his own end — but suddenly he was aware of a whipping, hectoring worry at
his skin. They had come upright and the wind was clawing at him once more.

Seaflower
now had her stern towards the wind: the roll would return when they passed the
midpoint. It was the moment between life and death, a surreal half-way
existence that allowed for the sight of the bow surging up at an impossible
angle, fleeting dark shapes flicking by, poking above the rushing seas. The
tidal surge paused, deposited Seaflower gently among storm-tossed coconut
palms, then retreated.

The
cutter was held rock solid in the arms of the land.

Chapter 16

In
stupefied immobility, Kydd waited the long night not daring to slacken his
life-line or loosen his grip on Cecilia. The winds howled unceasing, the fabric
of the vessel trembled and shuddered, but Seaflower was immovably high and dry
among the palm trees, which whipped furiously in the outer darkness.

A
wild dawn crept in. With it came a true appreciation of what had happened. The
improving visibility showed them a good two or three hundred yards inland,
quite upright, held there by the densely growing palms of some unknown island.
Their small size had enabled them to surf over the offshore reefs and be
carried safely ashore: a deeper hulled vessel would have grounded and been
smashed to flinders. Seaflower had brought them through safe and sound. Tears
pricked at Kydd.

Cecilia
stirred. Her eyes opened and he saw to his astonishment that she had been
sleeping. He didn't trust himself to speak, but Cecilia said something - he
bent to hear against the dismal moan of the wind. "Thomas, please don't
think to speak of this to Mama, she does worry so.'

They
laughed and cried together in the emotion of the moment, and Kydd loosened the
cruel bite of the life-line. The fore hatchway opened, a head popped out to
look around, and untidy bundles around the deck began to stir. Kydd moved his
limbs and stared out at the ruinous scene. Where was Renzi? A wild fluctuation
of feeling was replaced by overwhelming relief when his friend's features came
into frame at the after hatchway.

'"And
doomed to death - though fated not to die!” Renzi said, with great feeling.

Cecilia
got to her feet, futilely trying to smooth her torn dress in the still blustery
winds. 'Pray excuse me, gentlemen, I fear I'm not fit to be seen in polite
company.' She smiled at Renzi and lowered herself awkwardly down the hatch.

Movement
was now general about the stranded cutter. Kernon appeared, and Jarman. There
was an attempt to reach the sodden ground beneath by rope, and after an
exchange of shouts, Kernon was lowered by a tackle, followed by Snead and his
bag of tools.

Renzi
stretched and groaned. 'Immured in those infernal regions, waiting for -
anything. This I will not relive ever again — I would rather it were ended by
my jumping overboard than endure that once more.'

While
the gale moderated to strong winds Seaflower came to life. An absurd and
out-of-kilter existence, but life. Her company assembled on the ground, among
the ragged, tossing palms. They looked up to the naked bulk of their ship and
gave heartfelt thanksgiving for their deliverance. Then blessed naval
discipline enfolded them. The first act was a muster of all hands - remarkably
few souls lost, but a number had tried to drink themselves into oblivion. Then
the vessel was stabilised with shores: there was no shortage of palm trunks
lying flattened and splintered, ideal for the task.

Lord
Stanhope had suffered a fall in the storm and now lay injured, tended by Lady
Stanhope. Other unfortunates had broken bones, cracked ribs, but they were
young: the noble lord, in his seventies, was facing an uncertain future.

Initial
scouting had established that the island was an undistinguished, lumpy specimen
of some indeterminate miles around and, as far as it was possible to tell,
uninhabited. Springs of water had been found, and goat droppings promised fresh
meat.

Immediate
dangers over, it was time to take stock. 'Your best estimate of where we are,
Mr Jarman?' Kernon asked.

'Sir,
both chronometers did not survive th' storm.' This was bad news: latitude was
easy enough to determine, given a sighting of the sun, but longitude was
another matter. 'And I do not carry tables o' the kind that I c'n work a
lunar.'

'I
see,' said Kernon. It was fundamental to the strategics of their plight that
they knew their position, and his frown deepened.

Jarman
took a deep breath. 'As far as I c'n judge, an' this is before a good
observation o' the sun, we are t' the south 'n' west o' Jamaica, distance I
cannot know.' He paused, then continued, 'There are no islands in th' central
Caribbean, but many in the west. The path o' the hurricanoe was from th' nor'
east, but you will know their path often curves north - or not. Sir, this is my
best estimate, south an' west o' Jamaica.'

Kernon
contemplated it for a moment, then turned to Snead. 'The ship?'

'Nothin'
that can't let 'er swim, but we ain't a-goin' to see that wi'out help.' He
pointed at the two hundred yards of dry land down to the sea. 'Anythin' the
size of a frigate c'n tow us off, but fer now . ..'

In
the rude shelter where he lay, Stanhope stifled a cry of pain. 'Desire Renzi to
attend me, if you would, my dear,' he whispered. His wife knew better than to
object. When they returned he said firmly, 'Charlotte, I wish to speak to Mr
Renzi alone.'

Stanhope
looked up at Renzi with the ghost of a smile. 'We have met, I believe,' he
said, in stronger tones, 'in — different circumstances, as I recall.'

Renzi
did not recall, but there was no point in denying it. It was the merest chance
that brought together a foremast hand and a peer of the realm, but it had
happened.

'Your
father is no friend to the government, as you must agree, but I have always
believed his son to be made of straighter grain.' His smile faded and he winced
at the pain. 'You will have your reasons for decamping from your situation, I
have no doubt—'

'They
seem sufficiently persuasive to me, my lord.'

'It
would be my honour to be privy to them.'

It
was an impertinence, but Stanhope's penetrating eyes held his unblinkingly —
this was no idle enquiry. Renzi felt that deeper matters hung on his reply. Concisely,
and with the least possible detail, he spoke of the moral decision leading to
his period of exile.

Stanhope
heard him out in respectful silence. 'Thank you, Renzi. My supposition was not
in error.' He paused, clearly recruiting his strength for a higher purpose. 'I
shall respect your position completely, and with all discretion — and may I
express my deepest sense of your action.'

'Thank
you, my lord.'

'It
serves to reassure me of what I am about to do.' He bit his lip, levered
himself up to his elbows and looked directly at Renzi. 'It is of the first
importance -the very first, I say, for me to reach England. The reason is that
I have intelligence of certain actions planned by the Spaniards to do us a
great mischief immediately war is declared.'

'War!'

'Of
course. It is planned to move against us once certain matters are in hand, but
you can be assured that war is imminent.' Renzi's mind raced — Spanish
possessions ringed the Caribbean and a whole continent to the south, and he
could think of a hundred mischiefs possible against unsuspecting islands.

'I
have no despatches, it is too dangerous.' He looked soberly at Renzi. 'I am not
sanguine as to my personal survival, and it is a heavy concern to me that my
intelligence die with me.'

Renzi
said nothing, but feared what would come.

'I
must now make all particulars known to you — under the strictest confidence
that you can conceive, Renzi.'

'Yes,
my lord.' A loathing of dissimulation made him unfit for the role of
intelligence, Renzi knew, but there was little he could do to avoid this duty.