"Kydd" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stockwin Julian)

CHAPTER 5

As Kydd came on watch in the afternoon, it was clear that the weather was on the change. The wind had backed from a previously favorable light northerly, and was now more in the west – and strengthening. It moved forward of the beam and the old battleship had to thrash along close to the wind instead of a comfortable full and bye. Her bluff bow met the increasingly steep but still relatively short waves of the Channel head on in a series of smashes that sent cold spray sheeting into the air, then stinging straight aft. Overhead, the lowering cloudbase had turned into a dull, racing overcast. Combers started to appear, vivid white in the unrelieved green-gray.

By three bells the wind had increased and it became necessary to shorten sail. In came the topgallants and the main and mizzen topgallant staysails; to balance this the small jib was set. Kydd found it increasingly unpleasant. In weather that on land would have people reaching for thick coats and scurrying thankfully for shelter he found himself standing waiting on the upper deck as each sail maneuver called for more hauling, then more inactivity. His suffering increased when drifts of light rain bore down in curtains of misty drizzle. The rain suddenly got harder, then stopped, leaving him shivering in the keen wind.

The others on watch did not offer sympathy – to them it was an inevitable part of being a sailor, to be endured quietly and with resignation. Some pulled on foul weather gear – shapeless woolen monmouth caps and lengths of tarred canvas that hung down like aprons, mainly used by those going aloft. Luckier ones had a grego, a rough, thick coat, and over it a layered tarpaulin surcoat.

Kydd had none of these. His short jacket over the waistcoat had soon become sodden and his trousers kept up a steady stream of water into his purser’s-issue light black shoes. Cold crept remorselessly inwards to his vitals.

It seemed an age before the watch was over and Kydd was able to make his way down to the mess. The warm fetor of the gundeck, its buzz of talk, was welcoming. Supper was beginning, and the grog monkey swam dark with rum.

Kydd sat in his wet gear, letting the rum and the surrounding fug do their work.

Bowyer stripped off his old tarpaulin overcoat, but underneath he seemed just as damp as Kydd. “Grievous wet, Joe,” Kydd said.

“Well, if you takes it ter heart every wet shirt yer gets, why, yer’ll fret yourself into a stew. O’ course, if you has yer sealskin warmers – wear ’em under the waistcoat yer does – but I guess you’ll want tarpauling gear o’ sorts. Have to see ol’ Nipcheese about that.”

He seemed to find the grog as acceptable as Kydd. Draining his tankard regretfully, he said, “I’ll see yer right on that, mate, don’t you worry. Can’t be havin’ you die o’ cold before we makes a topman of ye, now, can we?”

Kydd looked at Bowyer, in his faded seaman’s rig, and felt a surge of warmth toward the man. He gulped at his grog, sighed and smiled, looking around at his new friends, then rested his eyes on the stout side of the ship. As usual condensation was running over age-blackened timber, but strangely, it slowly transformed, from a harsh confining prison wall into a sturdy barrier protecting him against the unknown vastness of the ocean outside.

Suddenly the ship gave a bump out of sequence, followed by a pitch of considerable vertical distance. The sudden movement caught Kydd unawares, and his grog spilled down his front.

“Gets a mort worse afore it gets better,” Howell said, watching Kydd over his pot.

Doud ignored him. “What’s the chance of a real blow, Sam?” he asked Claggett.

“Depends on what you calls a real blow.” Claggett stared moodily into the distance. “We’ll have Portland comin’ abeam b’ six bells. If it doesn’t back even more to th’ west we can do it on this board, if that’s what yer mean.” Doud waited patiently. “But if we don’t make our westin’ soon, why, then we’ll be hook down ridin’ it out in Torbay or somewheres. You know how it’ll be, Ned.”

Kydd broke in. “What about the Frogs?”

They looked at him with surprise. “Why, the buggers can’t move with this westerly,” said Whaley. “Bailed up in harbor, they be, can’t sail against a foul wind, see.”

A deeper lurch came. Kydd could swear he felt the unseen wave pass all the way down the ship, the bows first rising to it, then as the wave reached midpoint, falling off down the other side.

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.

“Nor’-westerly like this can go on fer days,” Howell muttered, staring at the ship’s side.

Claggett glanced up. “An’ what else can you expect in Biscay of an Eastertide, Jonas?” he said.

Kydd put down his tankard and turned to Claggett. “So this is y’r storm?” He grabbed for the table edge as a roll turned into an unexpected lurch.

“Not as who would say a storm, mate,” Claggett replied. “More of what we’d call a fresh gale, is all.” He took another pull at his grog and glanced at Bowyer. “A storm is somethin’ that makes yer very ’umble, like – it’s when the hooker has ter give up goin’ ter where it wants ter go and she lies to, or scuds, only where the storm wants ter send ’er.”

Bowyer grimaced softly. “He’s right, cuffin. A real blow can be very awesome, makes yer right fearful when yer comes down to it, like.” He stared through Kydd. “Comes a time when yer knows that there’s a chance that yer might not live – sea jus’ tears at the barky like it was an animal, no mercy a-tall. That’s when yer remembers yer mother an’ yer sins.”

Claggett nodded slowly. “It’s when yer finds out if yer ship is well found ’n’ you can trust yer life to ’er. Or not.”

Kydd took another swallow of his rum and listened.

Bowyer stirred uncomfortably. “Fer me, I feels pertic’lar for the merchant jacks in foul weather – ship’s gen’rally small ’n’ always the crew is less’n it should be, owners being so horse-cockle mean ’n’ all. Poor bastards, they might fight fer their lives, but it’s for nothing – that size in wild weather they got no chance a-tall.”

With a crash from forward and a rumble of gear along the side, Duke William rolled before an unseen rogue wave, seawater spurting from the caulking around the lee gunports to add to the swill on deck.

Kydd was no longer a prey to seasickness. He had quickly developed a feel for the ocean’s rhythms, and he could sense the shape and timing of the seas that rolled under Duke William’s keel, learning how to move with rather than fight against the motion. And after his experiences in the hoy at the Nore he knew enough to be grateful for this. He refused to join in the cruel taunting of those seasick unfortunates in the waist, helpless in their misery.

Pinto arrived with the noon meal. In the absence of a galley fire it was poor stuff – chunks of cheese so hard it needed real effort to carve at it, even with sharp seamen’s blades. Kydd’s gorge rose when he noticed long red worms squirming at the cut, but raw hunger griped at him.

“Saw bosun at the fore shrouds lookin’ wry,” Doud said. “Chucks’ll have us rackin’ at them lee lanyards this afternoon, I guess.” He chewed hungrily at his hard tack.

Whaley gave a short laugh. “Seen the weather brace o’ the fore topsail? Bin so many times end for end it’s naught but shakin’s waitin’ to be damned!”

“An’ the bowsprit gammonin’,” Doud added. “Bobstay’s loose, ’n’ in this blow the spar’s workin’ somethin’ cruel.”

Howell’s lips curled in a sneer. “Goes ter show, barky is rotten in the riggin’ and the deadwork as well. Ship only keeps afloat by the maggots holdin’ hands. Be a bloody miracle if we ever makes port agen, I says.”

Pumping began at three bells, and Kydd was sent to the chain pump in the second half-hour spell. The massive crank, worked by twenty men, could send the endless chain clattering around vigorously – two tons of water an hour could clear the pump well in a watch.

It was hard work; in the confined space of the lower deck the rotating crank handle needed a wide range of movement, the weight of the column of bilge water and the resistance of dozens of leather disks a deadweight to be heaved against in a tedious round of movement. The clanking, rattling boredom went on and on, Kydd’s back taking the worst of the strain, and it was an intense relief to hear the “Spell-oh!” at the end of his trick. He stretched and stumped up the ladders to rejoin his watch, sure that the blast of wind that met him as he emerged on deck was wilder than before.

“Haaaands to shorten sail!”

Bowyer came up, his hair plastered to his skull and water streaming from his tarpaulin cape. He bent forward to shout to Kydd: “We’re going ter play safe ’n’ close reef topsails, then bend on the fore storm staysail – but none o’ yer tricks now, mate, it’s too chancy.”

The sea was now smoking at its crests, a continuous horizontal sleeting of fine spume covering the surface like a ground mist. The wind held real force, its sound a continuous low roar as it passed through the taut rigging, and Kydd held grimly to the fore and aft rigged lifelines.

The watch gathered forward-the fo’c’sle was a frightening place to be. Ahead, the bowsprit out to the flying jibboom rose skywards as though to spear the racing dark clouds before swooping down to smash into the waves ahead in a violent paroxysm of white. It stayed under for long seconds before rising, streaming water. At times a rampaging comber would thump violently against the weather bow, sending solid water sheeting over the little group, making Kydd gasp afterward at the cruel cold of the wind blasting against his sodden clothing.

Kydd felt a hand on his arm. It was Corrie. “Now yer can see why they calls it the widder-maker,” he yelled, pointing at the bowsprit. “Some cove’s gotta get out there jus’ because they left it late.”

“Stir yerself, Corrie!” Bowyer growled. “Yer got work to do.”

With lifelines around their waists paid out slowly, the two, with three others, timed their move out onto the gangboard gratings of the bowsprit to the horse, a single footrope dangling in space under the big spar. The bows plunged – the men dropped to the bowsprit and clung. Kydd watched dismayed as white seas closed viciously over them. The onrushing wave then exploded against the beakhead in sheets of spray, which fell heavily on him. By the time he had cleared his eyes the bowsprit was emerging with dark dripping figures still clinging.

In short, hasty jerks the fore topmast staysail came down and was gathered in. Bowyer climbed to the top of the broad spar, his arm around the forestay, fisting the wildly flogging staysail. His eyes, however, did not miss the next wave, which seethed in, leaving his head and shoulders clear. When the wave receded Kydd saw that Bowyer’s tarpaulins had been stripped off, hanging loose. He kicked them away and continued in his shirt. The storm staysail was an easier matter. The long cylinder of canvas was passed out and bent on the forestay with beckets, Bowyer’s nimble fingers quickly passing the toggles as the canvas mounted the stay.It was the sharpest sea lesson that Kydd had received yet: only skill, bravery and the ignoring of personal discomfort would give a man any kind of chance in these conditions. Any less and he would be eliminated.

“See that? Lightnin’! We’re in for it now, mates!” Corrie was staring out at the Stygian cloud mass to the southwest. Another soundless flash low down on the horizon to leeward, but no thunder, any distant sound impossible to hear against the storm noise.

“No, it ain’t, that’s gunflash, that is,” Doud said.

“Don’t talk such flam. Who’d be fightin’ a war in this?” Corrie countered.

Bowyer frowned. “Them’s distress guns!”

As if in confirmation, Duke William eased around and bore away toward. The alteration, of course, had the waves coming in at an awkward angle astern and her movement changed into a nasty cross motion, which soon had some of the hands looking thoughtful.

Low in the water, the merchant ship was in a sorry way. She was a small brig with an old-fashioned look about her. Her foremast had snapped off some eight feet clear of the deck and the entire rigging structure forward was snarled into hopeless ruin on her foredeck. All she could do was scud before the wind under bare poles. A few figures could be made out on her low poop, waving vigorously.

“Guess we must seem as some sort o’ miracle,” Kydd said to Bowyer. They were sheltering in the half deck, behind the men at the wheel. He pictured Duke William, bluff and grand, appearing out of the wildness and making straight for them.

Bowyer stared pensively over and did not reply.

The officer of the watch had his telescope trained on the unfortunate vessel and clicked his tongue. “She’s not going to last for much longer unless they can get the water out of her,” he said.

“Poor beggars at the pumps are prob’ly beat – or somethin’ else,” Bowyer said cryptically.

“Mr. Warren!” The Captain’s voice came suddenly from behind them. “What’s the situation?” The watch politely made room for him under the half deck overhang.

“Merchant brig, sir. Lost her foremast, seems to be taking in water. Can’t see more than a few men on deck, could be shorthanded.” He raised his telescope again. “Can’t see any colors, but she’s probably ours.”

“Very well. Heave to, if you please, Mr. Warren. Least we can do is make a lee for them.” Caldwell’s face was set and pitying.

“Then?”

“No, Mr. Warren, no boat can swim in this.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. We can do nothing more – they must take their chances.”

Kydd could hardly believe his ears. There were human beings, sailors, just a short distance away and they could do nothing?

“Was there when Montrose was lost off the Canaries,” said the Master, to no one in particular. “Near two hunnerd soldiers there was, with we standing by. Went down in the night, they did. Heard their screams when it was they drowned. Cruel hard it were, we could do nothing for ’em.”

Warren turned to the Captain and said urgently, “Sir, if we could come alongside to wind’d of them, and get a line across we -”

“No,” Caldwell said flatly. “We drift at different rates, there is danger we would fall foul of each other. I cannot risk this valuable ship in such a venture. We’ll stand by them until nightfall but then we must resume our station. That is our duty.”

To that there could be no reply.

It was clear that the small ship’s end would not be long delayed. She did not rise readily with the waves, which swept her decks like a half-tide rock, each one adding to the deadweight of water in her. Crippled as she was, there was no way she could achieve any kind of steerage way and she rolled and wallowed at the mercy of the sea, surging and snubbing at some sort of sea-anchor out over her plain stern.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, sir,” said Bowyer, knuckling his forehead awkwardly.

Caldwell looked around in surprise. “Yes, er, Bowyer, isn’t it?”

“Aye, sir. Well, when I was foretopman in Diana frigate we had to lie off a sloop in this sorta blow, ’n’ we had to get men aboard. An’ what we did, sir, was t’ stream off a raft to loo’ard, with the men lashed on it.” He shuffled his feet. “What I’m a-sayin’, sir, is that if you sees your way clear to sendin’ a raft, why, I’ll be on it, sir.”

Caldwell looked at him doubtfully. “That vessel will surely founder soon,” he said.

“If we can fish a spar to the stump o’ the foremast, we show some steadyin’ canvas, fresh men at the pumps, she has a chance, sir.”

“It will need more than one man.”

Warren stepped forward. “I’ll go, sir – give me another three men, and we’ll do the job,” he said.

Caldwell paused. “You do understand that, if you go, I must leave you to your own resources and return to station. You will have to make rendezvous with me when the weather moderates.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Then I must ask you now to consider carefully the risks. This is a very dangerous enterprise and may result in the loss of you and your party. You will do well to reconsider.”

Warren looked at Bowyer and then at the doomed brig. “We’ll go, sir.”