starin' up at yer — an' that's when you knows it's all up, 'cos it feeds on sailors what it sweeps up orf of the deck with its slimy great arms forty fathom long, with these 'ere suckers all over 'em.'
Apprehension spread over Kydd. As they spoke there might be one directly in their path, lying in silent anticipation of its meal, just at this moment noiselessly rising up from the depths. He shivered, and hunkered down in the blackness as low as he could. Renzi was out of reach, now at his trick on the wheel, but in the forenoon they would certainly talk together.
The prevailing westerlies died and from the other direction the north-east trade winds began: pleasantly warm, vigorous and exhilarating, the best possible impetus for their southward voyaging. The sea turned ultramarine under the azure sky, and with hurrying white horses below and towering cumulus rising above, their sea world was a contrasting study in blue and white.
On the sun-dappled main deck Petit paused in his seaming. 'Yez knows what this means.'
Kydd looked up and waited.
'These are the trade winds, 'n' that means we now got Africa ter larb'd.'
It was a thought to conjure with. The fabled dark continent, its interior unknown to mankind. Jungle and swamp, the whole mystery lying just over there from where the winds were blowing. Kydd was seized with a yearning to glimpse it, just once.
The weather grew from warm to hot; pitch between the deck planking became sticky to the touch where the sun beat down on it, and Kydd had to cover his torso with an open shirt; his bare feet had long ago become strong and toughened.
Below decks it was too hot to sleep. Kydd and Renzi sat on the fo'c'sle, off watch, Renzi with his clay pipe drawing contentedly and Kydd staring up dreamily. The stars were out, and of such brilliance they appeared low enough to touch. Along the eastern horizon, however, was a dark line. Curious, they watched it take shape. As the hours wore on it extended gradually on both sides and fattened to a bank of darkness. Lightning played within it, a continuous flickering that illuminated tiny details of the cloud mass in tawny gold.
The heat of the day was still with them, the air breathy, heavy. They looked towards the bank idly, fascinated by the primeval sight. It was now moving towards them from the beam. As it drew nearer the distant flashes of lightning became more separated and distinct, and after a long interval an answering sullen rumbling of thunder could be heard floating towards them over the water.
'All the hands! All hands on deck —
There was no apparent change in the immediate weather; the wind was the same streaming easterly, but for the first time Kydd could detect a scent, a heavy humid rankness of rotten vegetation and stagnant pools — the heady fragrance of Africa.
They took in courses, then topsails. Powlett, it seemed, would not be satisfied until the yards were at the cap and all they showed were staysails fore-and-aft. Their speed fell off, and the roll of the ship changed in character: the Atlantic swell passed them by to leave the ship wallowing in long jerky movements, an unsettling sensation for a fast frigate.
Drawing closer, the dense cloud bank increased in height and width, its dark pall gradually snuffing out the stars until it loomed high over them. Men did not return below, they lined the side and watched. The lightning became more spectacular, the thunder a spiteful crack and pealing roar. Then came a darkness more intense than ever.
Kydd felt something elemental stealing over him; the towers of blackness glowered moody and threatening, fat with menace. The wind died; in the calm the flashing and banging of the lightning filled the senses. There was a breathless pause as the last stars flickered out overhead. In the ominous calm it seemed that the fluky winds were in dispute for the right to turn on their prey.
A gust, then others. The wind picked up in violent, shifting squalls, sending Kydd staggering. The wall of blackness raced across towards them - and they were hit. In an instant it seemed as if the heavens were afire. The lightning coalesced into one blinding, ear-splitting blast of thunder, which ripped the air apart. The squalls tore at Kydd's grip in a nightmare buffeting and all he could do was stand rigid, stupefied. The ship reared and shied like a frightened horse, deafening volleys of thunder entering the fabric of the vessel, transmitting through to his feet. Worse by far than any broadside, the sound smashed at his senses. He fumbled for half-remembered prayers. They josded in his mind but focus was impossible under the assault.
And the rain came down. Walls of warm, gusting tropical rain in quantities so huge that it forced Kydd down as though he were caught in a waterfall. Breathing was almost impossible, and he lowered his head to avoid the worst of the water tumbling down on him. Hair streaming, clothes plastered to his body, his mind went numb. It went on and on, the ship trembling and directionless, heading for who knew what inevitable destruction.
Kydd felt a grip on his arm. Through blurred vision he saw Renzi and, to his astonishment, realised that the man was laughing. He felt anger welling up, an indignant resentment that Renzi was enjoying the experience, no doubt adding it to his store of philosophic curiosities. He tore away his arm and resumed his posture of endurance, but it was no good, the spell had been broken. Reluctantly he had to concede that if modern learning could proof a man against nature's bluster then perhaps it had some merit.
He looked up again and grinned slowly. The heavens rattled and roared but in some way the storm's sting had been drawn, and within the hour its fury had moderated. The rain petered out, and the blackness began to dissolve, the lightning spending itself in vicious flickers that whip-cracked right across the sky.
The last of the darkness was passing overhead. Rueful, soaked figures fumbled about on the streaming decks.
Kydd moved to the larboard fore-shrouds and swung himself up for the climb into the foretop. But before he had risen a dozen feet there was a single dazzling flash and a clap of thunder so tremendous that it shook the ship with its concussion.
Deafened, he clung to the shrouds, shaking his head to clear it. As his eyes tried to adjust to the dark and his ears stopped buzzing he became aware of a commotion on the opposite side. The shrouds there gave off wisps of steam along their length. Still muzzy from the shock of the discharge Kydd couldn't understand. Then he realised - there had been one last spiteful play of lightning, and it had struck the foremast but by chance had passed down the opposite shrouds, to the iron of an anchor and into the sea.
Trembling at the thought of his near escape from an unspeakably violent death Kydd dropped to the deck and went over to see the results of the strike. The lines of rigging were randomly patterned with steaming black. Above,
