'When we gets t' Barbados, th' thing I'd like best—'
Before Doud's thought could be finished there was a sickening crunch and a crazy rearing. The longboat came to a sudden halt, sending all hands sprawling and the mast splintering in two. Then the boat slid backwards crazily and into deep water again. The sea was as innocent as it was possible to be, but inches under water, and therefore invisible, a projection of reef not on the chart had been lying in wait. The boat lay in disorder, and Kydd saw clear water in the bottom. 'Clear away th' raffle, Nicholas - we're takin' in water,' he said thickly.
Without being told Cecilia added her weight to the heaving and bundling, her face set and worried, her dress riding up unnoticed. Doud was in the foresheets, bending over again and again and, in silent agony, nursing an injured arm.
It was as bad as Kydd had feared. The very bottom of the boat had taken the full force of the impact and was stove in. By a miracle the worst affected plank was still hanging by a thread, but the crystal clear water of the Caribbean was gouting in. Their survival would now be measured in minutes unless something could be done. Kydd's mind raced. If they stuffed the holes with clothing it would reduce the flow — but at the almost certain risk of the plank giving way and bringing on a final unstoppable rush of water.
'Nicholas, unbend the mains'l, we have t' fother.' They would try to check the inrush by passing the sail around the outside of the boat 'Rest o' ye, bale f'r your lives!'
His fingers scrabbling at the ropes and flaccid canvas Kydd tried to think. Judging by the merest suggestion of misty grey to the north-west they were no closer than a dozen miles from St Lucia. The wreckage of the boat might sink under the weight of its fittings or remain a waterlogged hulk; either way there was no salvation for them.
The mainsail was won from its rigging by sheer brute insistence and sailors' knives, and Kydd staggered with it to the bow. Somehow the unwieldy mass had to be passed under with a rope each side — that required two men - but as well it had to be hauled away aft.
'Which rope?' Lord Stanhope said tersely, stumbling towards them.
'M' lord — if Y’ please,' Kydd said, and handed him one. Cecilia insisted on the opposite one, freeing Kydd and Renzi to ease the sail foot by foot down the outside length of the boat The water was half-way to the knees, unnerving and making the boat wallow frighteningly.
'Bale!' bawled Kydd, and with anything they could find they furiously threw the water overside. There was no telling whether they had a chance and Kydd fell to his work in a frenzy of desperation.
He was unprepared for the inhuman screech that pierced the air. It was Cecilia. She stood in the centre of the boat and pointed shakily - to a hulking white shape below the water that glided past lazily, a lethal flash of cruel eyes and a semicircle of teeth around a gaping maw. Kydd went icy. He remembered the frenzy of killing around the burning ship, the living flesh ripped and devoured before their horror-struck gaze. 'Bale!' he howled.
Cecilia remained frozen near the stump of the mast, her face sagging with fear, staring at the shark. 'I — I hate them — I h-a-a-a-te them!' she said, in rising hysteria. Kydd had never seen his sister like this before and saw that her terror was unhinging her.
His voice caught in a sob, for he knew there was nothing he could do for her. It was probable that before evening every one of them would have been eaten alive - there were now four of the terrible creatures circling the boat. An impossibly huge shark came close, closer. There was a sudden bump and dismaying displacement. Something of its evil ferocity was transmitted in the shock of the blow, a personal message of hatred that was the more terrifying for being felt rather than seen.
Cecilia sat suddenly, her face contorted with terror. Renzi put down his baler and, with an expression of supreme compassion, held her rigid body close, stroking, soothing.
'Nicholas!' Kydd choked. His duty was baling; they must fight - they would play it to the last.
Renzi went back to his work, his eyes on Cecilia. She gulped crazily and scrabbled over the thwarts towards Kydd, looking to him with eyes at the very edge of madness. 'Thomas! Thomas! Ple-e-a-se!’ Kydd could not look at her. 'P-p-promise me, p-please promise me — before it h-happens — you'll k-kill me, with y-your knife, ple-e-a-se ...' Kydd's hand strayed to the seaman's knife at his belt and felt his mind unravel.
