Kydd

“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.”

CHAPTER 6

The raft was complete: two spare stuns’l booms connected a pair of main hatch gratings, supported by an empty cask at each end. Each man lashed himself on twice, once under the arms and again around the waist. Bowyer himself checked Kydd’s lashings, with Doud and Wong attending to themselves.

The boatswain looked dubious as he personally secured the streaming line and attended to the hoisting out of raft and men. It was a vertiginous experience, buffeted by the wind blast while suspended from the main yard tackle, then swaying perilously above the violent seas before dropping toward the maelstrom. Kydd wondered wildly why he had volunteered, but he knew that he would always stand by Bowyer.

They neared the hissing seas and suddenly a large wave shot upward toward them and they were sent spluttering and choking into the sea. Bowyer threw the hooked block clear and they spun crazily until the line paid out by the team on the fo’c’sle took up.

There was little difference at the sea surface between solid water and flying spume, and Kydd choked and swallowed seawater helplessly until he thought to hold his head downwind. The sea felt almost warm in contrast to the wind-chilled air, but it was impossible to see anything of the larger picture. Spreadeagled on the grating, he felt the raft following the shape of the waves exactly; angling steeply up the fore side of the wave coming from behind, becoming briefly buried in its foaming crest before sliding at less of an angle down the other side. It went on insanely, riding the seas like a piece of debris, hurtling up and down on the waves but always on top like a cork and never overcome.

With a jerk the line tautened and Kydd rubbed his eyes to see the bulking mass of the merchant vessel very close. A rope slapped across his back. He grabbed it and found a bowline-on-a-bight already formed at the end, through which he put his head and arms before fumbling at his lashings.

He was pulled up, bumping on the weatherworn old sides as he reached the top, before being hauled in bodily, falling on Doud, who was crawling out of the way.

There were only two men on deck, both in old oilskins. They had gray, exhausted faces and moved slowly. “Lieutenant James Warren, His Majesty’s Ship Duke William.” Warren’s words were carried away by the wind.

One of the men gestured to the single companionway in the center of the flush deck, and they descended to a tiny cabin flat. “In here,” he said, in a hoarse croak.

They entered the small stern cabin, which was in disorder. “Lost our foremast a day ago, takin’ in water fast, and -”

“Yes. Then you are?” Warren broke in.

“Charles Kelsey, master o’ the Lady of Penarth, five days out o’ Barry bound for Lisbon with jute,” he said.

“What can we do for you, Captain?” Warren asked.

Exhausted, Kelsey gestured to the other man to speak. “Took your damn time coming, didn’t you?” the man said bitterly.

“Sir?” Warren’s jaw took a hard line.

“All the same, you King’s men, always -”

“That’s enough, Mr. Scully!” the older man said sharply. He turned to Warren. “We’ve had a hard time of it since we lost the foremast. Please forgive the mate his manners.” He glared at Scully and resumed, his voice strengthening. “We’re shorthanded, you understand. Main need right now is help at the pumps.”

Warren nodded at Bowyer, who touched his forehead. Scully grudgingly led the way. The pump was abaft the main hatch on the upper deck, slightly protected from the storm blast by a weather cloth spread in the shrouds, but open to the green seas, which regularly poured over the bow. Scully stumped off.

A single seaman was at the pump, which was much like a village pump with a handle to work up and down. The man swung listlessly at his task. No water emerged from the standpipe.

Bowyer took it in with a glance. “Rose box in the bilges is choked,” he said. “Show me, would you, mate?” he said to the man.

There was no answer. The man went on pumping mechanically, up and down.

“Chum, we need to find the pump well,” Bowyer said more loudly. He pulled the man clear, but the sailor stared about him in bewilderment. His hands remained extended, claw-like.

“The pump box, mate!”

They reeled off forward into the sleeting spray and down a companionway.

When Bowyer returned his face was grim. “Cleared it usin’ the limber chain, so you can get started. Tom goes first, Ned spells ’im in an hour.”

He glanced aft. “No use expectin’ help – they’re all below, betwaddled to the gills an’ right out’ve it. They left their mate to do all the pumpin’.”

Doud shrugged. “If you have ter go, not a bad way, is it? Yer wouldn’t know anythin’ about it.”

Bowyer’s look was scathing. “That’s as may be. Better ter go down fightin’ is my way.” He looked at the tangle of splintered wreckage forward and flexed his arms. “Let’s be started – we gotta get sail on ’er afore dark.”

Kydd saw Duke William sail off into the smoking seas, disappearing into the white murk and leaving them on their own.

It was not until after night had closed in on the struggling vessel that the fore topsail yard had been seized upright to the stump of the foremast, and stayed to the empty fore-chains. By the wildly jerking light of three lanthorns the storm jib was hoisted as a trysail. It held, and with the mainsail a goosewing there was balance at last. Not only that, but a semblance of control was possible, for with the course braced up sharp and the jury trysail taut and drawing, it was possible for the ship to lie to, taking the seas regularly on the shoulder of her bow. The waves ceased to flood the decks and there was a noticeable increase of liveliness in response, helped by the steady pumping that was clearing the deadweight of water from within her.

In a huddle under the bulwarks, Warren gave his orders. They would be divided into larboard and starboard deck watches in the usual way, Bowyer and Kydd in the larbowlines and on for the first watch. Warren himself would stand both watches while the master and mate recovered from their exhaustion. “And listen to what I say now,” Warren said, looking at them grimly. “The hold is not to be entered. I will take it as a serious breach of discipline if it is.” They stared at him. “I have given my word to the master that this will be so, and any man that makes me break my word will rue it. No doubt you’ll discover in any event, this vessel carries a cargo of bonded whisky under the jute.”

Doud caught Kydd’s eye. Warren noticed and continued, “Therefore any man who is found in the hold will instantly earn himself at the least a striped back. Do I make myself clear?”