the seas rose and battered and tugged at him. He held the thick shrouds in a death grip, pressing his face to their rough surfaces, feeling their sturdy strength.
The seas fell away as the ship began a laborious roll upwards. It was time to get to work. Kydd moved outboard of the anchor to the big ring beyond the stock. He waited for the surging seas to return and subside, then bent to begin. The rope had a mind of its own, snarling and writhing, but Kydd forced it round. More seas, but his work held, and when the dripping cable appeared, his keckling was still there. He worked feverishly, his arm hooked about the cable, but such was his concentration that when the next sea came it took him unawares -a momentary vision of the water within inches, then he was submerged, buffeted by giant forces while he hugged the cable, a maelstrom of roaring in his ears.
He emerged, bruised and gasping, his eyes stinging, a salty burning in his throat, but he went on grimly. His first sea friend, Bowyer, a deep-sea mariner of the very best kind, came to mind, and memories of lessons in the sea crafts, and he responded. Every working of cordage and cable would be the best he could manage.
Unexpectedly he felt a tug on his shoulder from above. Stirk's hand came out, and Kydd was hoisted bodily over the bulwarks. He sank to all fours with exhaustion, hearing Stirk's murmured words of encouragement — then noticed buckled shoes and silk stockings. He looked up to see- the Captain gazing down at him, then his slow nod of approval.
* * *
The second bower anchor gave way within the watch. It was terrifying to see the speed with which they were carried downwind towards the hard line of the shore. The sheet anchor, however, was ready and plunged into the sea almost immediately.
Now down to her last big anchor,
The daylight ebbed and the deck filled with silent men staring across the seas to their last sight of the land. Kydd went below to find something to eat, to bring strength to his weary body. It was sheltered below, the manic howl of the wind muted, its wearisome plucking and battering no longer worrying at his body.
The mess was deserted again, except for a small figure, head bowed, sitting alone at their mess-table. Puzzled, Kydd approached. It was Luke, a picture of misery. He did not look up as Kydd drew near.
'Hey now, skinker — light along some clacker f'r a starvin' mariner,' Kydd said breezily. Luke didn't respond.
'How's this? Messman f'r the petty officers, an' can't find 'em some vittles?' Kydd came to sit next to him. The bass rumble of some loose gear slamming against the hull forward sounded ominous and loud.
Luke said something in a low voice that Kydd was unable to catch. He leaned closer and saw that the boy had been crying. He hesitated, then put his arm round the lad's shoulders. Luke tensed then swayed and rested his head against Kydd.
'How's this? Pipin' the eye?' Kydd said kindly. 'Not as would be fittin' f'r a sailor, you'll agree, cuffin.'
Luke's muffled voice was certain. 'Mr Kydd, t'night I will be in hell.'
At a loss for words, Kydd could only squeeze his shoulders.
'I ain't been t' church much - an' that was only 'cos m' mother made me,' he continued, in stricken tones. 'An' - an' I lied t' her! See, I said as I'd go off t' work fer Uncle Jonathan away in Hounslow, an' I didn't. I ran off t' sea.'
Kydd saw with guilty clarity an image of a dusty church, a droning sermon and fiery words of sin, sentence and torment. Luke lifted his face, bright with tears, and blurted, 'I don't mean t' be wicked. When Mr Stirk gave me a grog, I didn't drink it, Mr Kydd, I threw it away — God's honour I did!'
A moment's hesitation, and Kydd withdrew his arm. 'You are indeed a wicked dog, and will probably have t' answer for it,' he said, thumping his fist on the table. Luke stared piteously at him. 'But not this night.' He paused dramatically. 'How dare ye have doubts about y'r ship? Is she dismasted? Is the
