mainstay in strands? D'ye see the Captain in despair? What sort o' jabberknowl is it, says we're on our way t' Davy Jones?'
Luke's face brightened. 'But we has one anchor out only, an'—'
Kydd's voice turned to thunder. 'So now y' questions m' seaman's skills? Y’ say that I can't pass a keckling without it falls off? I should take a strap to ye, younker!'
A hesitant smile appeared and Kydd pressed on: ‘First light an' the wind’ll have shifted two, three points, an' then we'll up hook 'n' make our offing.' He fisted Luke lightly on the arm. 'Then it'll go hard on any as were seen afore not havin' trust in their ship.'
A sniff, a shamefaced smile, and Luke's cloud passed. 'There ain't much t' eat, Mr Kydd,' he said, but I'll find y' some - fr'm them shonky lubbers who don't want any,' he added, waving at the helpless landmen forward.
Kydd grinned. 'I thank ye, but I'll take a turn about the uppers first.' He felt a guilty stab at the hero-worship he saw in Luke's face, stuffed his pockets with anything he could find, and returned to the upper deck.
In the last of the light he saw tossing white breakers, the anonymous grey coast behind. And then a desolate night clamped in. He hunkered down in the lee of the bulwarks, his feet braced against the loudly creaking carriage of a gun, and pulled his jacket around himself. The subliminal jerk of the anchor cable transmitted itself to him, and he thought of the keckling deep in the sea, his work the only thing standing between the ship's company and their end in the loneliness of the night. He worried for a minute whether the canvas parcelling under the keckling was sufficient, but then decided that nothing was to be gained by that, and drifted into a fitful doze.
'On yer feet, matey.' A boatswain's mate with a dark-lanthorn was shaking him, but not unkindly. 'Larbowlines t' muster.'
Aching in every part of his body, Kydd staggered to his feet and lurched toward the quarterdeck, almost invisible in the darkness. There was no diminution in the wind-blast and the fierce motion of the sea was the same.
The officer-of-the-watch had his orders: the hawse rounding would be inspected hourly, the mate-of-the-watch would make his rounds half-hourly and the quartermaster-of-the-watch and his mate would check the hold for stores broken loose. The rest would remain on deck, on immediate call to the pumps.
As they opened up the forward hold in the orlop, Kydd noticed by the light of their lanthorn that Capple's eyes were red, his face lined. He wondered whether he himself looked as bad as he pulled aside the grating and dropped on to the casks immediately below. He reached up for the lanthorn and held it while Capple joined him. The dim gold light reached out into the stinking gloom, the noise of the hull working in the storm a deafening chorus of shattering cracks and deep-throated creaking. As far as could be seen, the stowage was unbroken. Kydd leaned over the side of the mound of casks to the ground tier in their bed of shingle, and saw the sheen of water in the shadows, then heard the hiss of water movement, much like a pebble beach.
'Takin' in a lot o' water,' Kydd called back. 'Hope Chips's got a weather eye on't.' The pumps had been at work for an hour every watch, he knew, but that would be the seawater flooding the decks making its way to the bilges. The red pinprick flash of eyes caught his attention at the periphery of his vision. *Rats're gettin' restless,' he muttered. In a heavy blow at sea, rats usually found somewhere quiet to sit it out; these were on the move. Kydd didn't know why, but felt the beginning of fear.
'I'm gettin' another lanthorn, Tom, mate,' Capple said. 'We're goin' to take a good look.'
It was dangerous work: the massive barrels over which they clambered moved at every violent roll, opening a vicious cleft between them that would certainly mean crushed fingers or worse if they were trapped. They worked their way down the ancient, blackened timbers of the ship's side, noting the weeping of seams, the visible working of frames and planking. There was nothing.
Up the other side. There did not appear to be anything they could report, but Kydd felt that all was not well in the old ship's bowels. They returned to anchor watch on the foredeck, feeling as much as seeing the catenary curve of the thick cable into the white-streaked dark ahead, and were soaked each time the thump of a breaker against the bows signalled another deluge.
At six bells, an hour before the end of Kydd's watch, they heard that the chain-pump, capable of moving tons of water an hour, was now being manned continuously. This was serious. There must be a near disastrous ingress of water somewhere, but the ship's company was numb after hours of hanging by their sole anchor, and the news had little impact. All hopes were centred on the morning.
