Seaflower

Kydd could not go below. At the end of his watch he crouched below the bulwarks again, straining against the darkness to catch the first hint of light. The anchor was holding — that was all that counted. At any moment it might silently give way and then, after a few despairing minutes, it would all be over for every soul aboard. At any moment! But the thought gradually lost its reality and therefore the power to terrorise him.

Cold, aching, stupefied by the hammering wind, Kydd slowly realised that he could see as far aft as the hulking shapes of the boats on their skids. He stood stiffly and looked out to sea.

'What is it, mate?' Stirk said. He had shared Kydd's vigil on the foredeck.

Kydd turned to him. 'Dawn,' he said. A smile transformed his face. They gripped a rope and gazed out, waiting for the wan daylight to spread. Across the wind-torn seascape the land finally emerged — but implausibly it ranged away at an angle.

'We got a chance now, me ol’ griff,' said Stirk, his eyes dark-shadowed, his face hollow.

'Show some canvas, why, we'll claw off in a brace o' shakes,' agreed Kydd. During the night the wind had backed. Now no longer a dead muzzier, there was a fighting chance that they could use the shift in wind to sail themselves out close-hauled. And in this way, they would no longer be reliant on the single anchor - they would be once more in the open sea.

The light of day spread. It was now possible to see a jagged horizon, which had been invisible the previous day, and Kydd knew that the weather was moderating.

'All haaands . . .' The rest was impossible to make out. But it was clear what was required. Hands to stations to set sail; Kydd went aft to the helm to await his orders.

Bomford spoke briefly to his first lieutenant. From all parts-of-ship came the officers and petty officers in charge of their stations, from the fighting tops, the fo'c'sle, the mainmast. They were the ones who would hear what must be done — and make it so.

The Captain stood in the centre of the deck, his officers straining to hear, the petty officers about them. 'You will know of the peril in which we stand — I will not refer to it again,' Bomford said. His voice had a hard, resolute edge that cut through the buffeting roar of the wind.

'We will cast to larb'd and proceed under close-reefed main, double-reefed storm jib and driver.' He looked keenly at the group. 'You will see that this is very like a club-haul, the latter part - and by this you will know that there is no going back, there is but one chance . . .'

Kydd had never seen a club-haul, a manoeuvre reserved for the most desperate situations, but he had heard of it. A vessel caught on a lee coast would let go her anchor, then continue to be blown ashore only to pivot around her anchor to face out to sea again. It was a brutal manoeuvre but the sting was in what Bomford was saying: there was only one chance, because when the vessel found herself headed back out to sea, she had no choice — the anchor cable had to be cut to enable the escape.

'I will crowd on her all sail she will take,' Bomford said, ‘by my sign to each in turn ...' he specified which signal would apply to which sail for shouted orders were useless '. .. and I apprehend the chief peril to be if the main course is .taken aback.'

The Captain finished, and looked gravely at each man. He then spoke gently but firmly: 'I do believe before we go to put our lives at hazard, it will not go amiss if we put our hopes and trust before He who disposes of all things.' A scatter of shapeless tarpaulin head coverings disappeared and, bare-headed, the men of HMS Trajan came together in prayer. For a long moment, there was silence as every man's thoughts soared to his loved ones, and the chance of ever seeing them again.

Kydd's eyes lifted from the deck. 'To your stations, if you please,' said Bomford quietly. The light had strengthened: it was possible to see well ahead to the open sea, the yearned-for goal, but the line of coast was growing in clarity.

Capple stood at the wheel, his arms folded, ready. His was without doubt the single most vital task. Kydd snatched a glance. If Capple felt the pressure on him he gave no sign of it, his eyes slitted against the wind, watching the sails bent on, gaskets loosened, men gathering to hoist — or dowse.

It was time. One by one the stations waved an acknowledgement, the men standing by