squalls, chill and spiteful. Capple screwed up his eyes at the onslaught and took up position at the weather side of the wheel, motioning Kydd to the lee side. 'Capple at th' helm, Kydd to loo'ard,' he called to the knot of officers on the quarterdeck, looking gravely out to the spreading darkness in the north-east. The wheel kicked under Kydd's hands — the vigour in the seas was a reality - and he watched Capple closely as in turn the seaman watched the leech of the reefed topsail aloft. It would be hours before he saw his mess again.
'Dyce — no higher.' Quist appeared from behind them, studying the bellying canvas. Far forward, the bows lifted and smashed down in a broad swash of foam as she came round, now going more before the increasingly blustery winds, which Kydd gauged were already at gale strength.
Men moved carefully about the decks, the motion making it more of a controlled stagger. There was still more to be done, and Kydd watched the carpenter at the base of each mast check the wedges for play, the boatswain and his men stropping the anchors with extra painters to hold them securely against the tearing pull of the sea as the vessel's heavy downward roll buried them once again in a roaring mass of foam.
Braced against the wheel, Kydd's muscles bunched and gave with the effort of keeping the rudder straight under the impact of the seas coming in from astern. The shock of the impacts came regularly and massively, and it was difficult to time their movements.
The first seas came over the bulwarks to flood the decks just as the horizon faded in white froth and spume torn from wave-crests, but with a thrill Kydd saw from the binnacle that the streaming blast of air was now from the north, tending north-westerly — it was backing! As long as they could keep the seas then, according to the master, they would pass safely through this chaos of sea and air. He looked across the deck to where Quist stood alone, buffeted by the still-increasing gale, his old dark tarpaulins plastered to his body. He felt an upwelling of feeling for the man, who held in his mind so much cool knowledge about this raging of nature, and who—
Under his feet Kydd sensed a sudden rupture, a rending crack - and he fell to the deck, the wheel spinning uselessly above him. Stunned, he heard Capple shout something about the helm before his wits returned and he realised the tiller-ropes must have parted. The ship began to fall away, but Auberon's voice came instantly, bullying over the dull roar of the storm down the main hatchway. Tlelieving tackles — get going, y' lubbers!'
A bigger pitch than usual forced the bows at an angle to the sea and a comber crowded aboard in a mad welter of white, crashing, invading. From up the hatchway came an indistinct shouting. Quist emerged, grabbed Kydd's shoulder and hurled him down the ladder, yelling that the tiller had broken in the rudder-head. Capple clattered down behind him.
They raced to the wardroom where a group of men stood staring at a wreckage of broken timber, blocks and a mess of rope. The whites of their eyes showed as the huge rudder thudded sideways, uncontrolled against the counter, and a thump of white spray shot up the rudder casing. The deck canted steeply, then reared up the other way, sending men stumbling and gear sliding. Kydd hesitated — but Capple thrust forward. 'Clear that shitde for'ard,' he roared, his finger stabbing towards two of the nearest men, who jerked into action. He pushed through the others to look at the rudder. 'Get th' fuckin' chocks,' he snapped at Kydd.
The carpenter appeared, panting. 'Chocks,' he agreed quickly, and together, the deck bucking like a horse, he and Kydd eased the first shaped piece of timber into the octagonal opening down which the massive rudder creaked and groaned. 'Th' easy bit,' grunted the carpenter. 'Hold it there, cully, an' I'll scrag ye if y' lets it go.'
Kydd held the timber wedge as if his life depended on it. Through the opening he could see the terrifying white-torn confusion of seas hurtling up, tilting, then dropping like a stone. The rudder stock swung over ponderously, thumping and grinding into the rough chock under his hand with an appalling creaking. Capple and the carpenter tried to stuff the remaining chock into the other side, but the rudder spat it out and swung back to thud against the ship's stern. Kydd knew to keep his chock steady in place, but his hands were perilously close to where he knew the rudder stock would return. It narrowly missed crushing his fingers, and this time the other chock slammed in, true.
'Out of it!' gasped the carpenter, and Kydd pulled aside as he swung a big iron-bound mallet in accurate, crashing hits. Miraculously, the rudder had now been jammed into its central position. On deck they could use a trysail aft to bring the bows back on course. The immediate danger was over.
'Spare tiller, Chips?' Capple asked.
'Aye,' said the carpenter, and inspected the immobile rudder head where the tiller had broken off inside. 'Second mortice,' he said decisively.
With relief, Kydd saw that the spare tiller could be fitted in a lower mortice and, without being told, he had the men hastily ranging the tiller-rope and relieving tackles. When the spare tiller had been shipped, these tackles were
