These men had every right to their territory, little enough in a ship of war. And he had no right – he did not belong. ‘Er, just came t’ hear the songs,’ he said weakly. ‘Rattlin’ good singing, lads,’ he added, but it fell into a silence. ‘Please carry on,’ he said, louder.
The men looked at each other, then the seaman who had sung ‘Ben Backstay’ got to his feet and stood purposefully under the lanthorns. He muttered an aside to the violinist and clutching a tankard launched loudly into:
‘To our noble Commander
His Honour and Wealth,
May he drown and be damn’d—’
Singer and violinist stopped precisely in mid-note and looked at Kydd. Their point made, the duo continued:
‘—that refuses the Health;
Here’s to thee Billy, honest an’ true;
Thanks to the men who calls them his crew
An’ while one is drinking, the other shall fill!’
A girl sprang into the pool of light. ‘A sarabande!’ she called. But Kydd had left.
Chapter 6
‘Well, I wish you joy of your voyage, gentlemen – unhappily I have a court-martial to attend and therefore shall not be with you.’ There was no mistaking the smug satisfaction in Bampton’s tone. In the normal run of events the inbound convoy would have been met by one or two of the hard-working frigates, but this one was transporting the lieutenant-governor of New Brunswick and his family to take up his post and Tenacious had been deemed more suitable.
It seemed to Kydd that he was the only one looking forward to the sea time. The weather had been miserable these past few days, cold and blustery, and although they would only be out a day or so at most, the general consensus was that it was an ideal time to snug down in harbour until better conditions returned.
Kydd had long ago realised that he was a ‘foul-weather jack’ – one of those who revelled in the exhilaration and spectacle of stormy seas, racing clouds and the life-intensifying charge of danger. In this short voyage he knew they would probably not face a full-blown tempest but the thought of a lively experience at sea lifted his spirits.
Tenacious and Ceres, a 32-gun frigate belonging to the Newfoundland Squadron, proceeded to sea together. With the cliffs of Chebucto Head abeam, they braced up for the hard easterly beat to rendezvous with the convoy.
The weather was freshening: their bows met foam-streaked waves at an angle, dipping before them, then rearing up to smash them apart in explosions of white. Standing aft, Kydd felt the sheeting spray in his teeth. With canvas taut as a drum, weather rigging harping to the wind’s bluster, and, far on their beam, Ceres swooping and seething along under small sail, he was happier than he had been for some time. There would be no problems with the enemy – any rational privateer would have long since scuttled southwards until the weather improved. No prize could be boarded in this.
By afternoon they had not sighted the convoy; almost certainly it had been delayed by the poor weather. Houghton, on the quarterdeck in oilskins slick with spray, obviously had no plans to return to port and at the end of the day they shortened sail and kept enough way on the ship to head the easterly. It showed signs of veering, which had the master muttering anxiously to Houghton. At midnight they wore to the south and at the end of the middle watch took the third leg of a triangle to approximate their dusk position again.
A cold dawn brought no improvement in the weather, just the same streaming fresh gale and lively decks a-swill with water. There was no sign of the convoy but Ceres had stayed with them and by mid-morning there was a flutter of colour at her peak halliards: the convoy had been sighted.
Widely scattered, the ships were struggling to stay together – it was a miracle that they were even within sight of each other after so many thousands of miles of ocean. Without a convoy plan Kydd had no idea how many there should be, but a quick count enabled him to report what must be a sizeable proportion to the captain when he appeared on deck.
‘We’re looking for Lord Woolmer, she’s carrying the new lieutenant-governor,’ Houghton said brusquely, ‘an ex-Indiaman. Be so good as to apprise the lookouts and report to me when she’s in sight.’
Ships of all kinds laboured past, converging on the rendezvous position; some showed obvious signs of storm damage. Towards the rear a battered sloop appeared, oddly out of shape with a truncated fore topmast, but bent on coming up with Tenacious.
‘Heave to, please,’ Houghton ordered, as he took the officer-of-the-watch’s speaking trumpet and waited. The sloop barrelled up to leeward and backed her headsails. Close by, the little vessel’s appalling motion was only too apparent – she was bucking in deep, jerky movements, bursts of spray sheeting over the small huddle at the wheel.
‘Where – is – Lord – Woolmer?’ Houghton called.
A figure in the sloop made his way to the shiny wet shrouds and aimed a speaking trumpet. Kydd could hear thin sounds from it, but not make out what was said. The sloop showed canvas enough for it to ease in, its exaggerated bucketing so much the more pitiable as it lurched closer alongside.
‘Woolmer – sprung mainmast – left her at fifty-five twenty west – running down forty-three north . . .’
At that longitude she was considerably to eastward of her course; somewhere in the stormy grey of the Atlantic she had encountered a squall that had nearly taken her mainmast by the board. She would have fished the mast with capstan bars and anything to hand, then been grateful for the easterly, which at least would have her heading slowly but surely for Halifax.
Looking down from the deck of Tenacious, Kydd felt for the sloop commander. Without a soul to ease the decision out there in the lonely ocean he had needed to weigh the consequences of standing by the injured vessel with her important cargo or resume his watch over the convoy. His presence was proof of the hard resolution he had made: to him the value to England of the merchant ships had outweighed that of one big ship and her passenger.
The sloop sheeted home and thrashed away after her convoy. Houghton turned to the master. ‘Mr Hambly, all sail conformable to weather. I believe we shall lay on the larb’d tack initially, with a view to returning to starb’d and intersecting our forty-three north line of latitude somewhere about fifty-seven west longitude.’
Much depended on the weather. Lord Woolmer was heading westwards as close as she could stay to a known line of latitude. If Tenacious sailed along the same line in the opposite direction they should meet. The problem was that the wind was dead foul from the east – in difficult conditions Tenacious would need to tack twice to intersect the line at the probable furthest on of the other ship. And Woolmer herself would be finding it hard to be sure of her latitude without sight of the sun for days at a time.
Kydd went below to find a dry shirt. He was watch-on-deck for the last dog-watch and wanted to be as comfortable as possible; there would be no going below later. As he came back up the companionway he saw the master, face set grimly, entering his tiny sea cabin. ‘Do ye think th’ easterly will hold?’ Kydd asked, wedging himself against the door for balance. The hanging lanthorn cast moving shadows in the gloom.
‘See this?’ Hambly tapped the barometer, its vertical case on gimbals also a-swing. His face seemed old and more lined in the dim light. ‘Twenty-nine ’n’ three fourths. These waters, as soon as we gets a drop more’n a tenth of an inch below our mean f’r the season, stand by. An’ we’ve had a drop o’ two tenths since this morning.’
He checked the chart again and straightened. ‘North Atlantic, even at this time o’ year, it’s folly to trust. It wouldn’t surprise me t’ see it veer more southerly, an’ if that’s with a further drop we’re in for a hammering.’
Kydd turned to go, then asked, ‘You’ll be about tonight, Mr Hambly?’
‘I will, sir,’ said the master, with a tired smile.
In the last of the light the foretop lookout sighted strange sail. It was Lord Woolmer with no fore and aft canvas from the main or anything above her course. S
he put up her helm to run down on Tenacious, and Kydd could imagine the relief and joy aboard. With luck they would be safe in Halifax harbour in two or three days and the story of their crossing would be told in the warmth and safety of their homes for months to come.
By the time the ship had come up with Tenacious it was too dark for manoeuvres, so they waited until the big, somewhat ungainly merchantman pulled ahead then fell in astern, three lanthorns at her fore-yard to comfort the other ship, whose stern lanthorns were plainly visible.
The morning brought the south-easterly that the master had feared; the wind had strengthened and the barometer dropped. It was time for even a well-found ship like Tenacious to take the weather seriously.
Houghton did not waste time. ‘Mr Pearce, Mr Renzi, we’ll have the t’gallant masts on deck.’ The jibboom was brought in forward. Aloft, all rigging that could possibly carry away to disaster was doubled up, preventer braces, rolling tackles put on the yards, slings, trusses – nothing could be trusted to hold in the great forces unleashed in a storm.
Anchors were stowed outboard – they would be of crucial importance should land be seen to leeward – and were secured against the smash of seas on the bows with tough double ring painters and lashing along the length of the stock.
The rudder, too, was vital to safeguard: a relieving tackle was rigged in the wardroom and a spare tiller brought out. It would need fast work to ship a new one – Rawson could be trusted in this, or to rouse out a portable compass and align its lubber-line to the ship’s head for use if the tiller ropes from the wheel on deck broke. The relieving tackle would then be used to steer.
On each deck a hatchway forward and aft ventilated the space through gratings. These now were covered with strong canvas and fastened securely with battens nailed around the coaming. Seas breaking aboard might otherwise send tons of water into the ship’s bowels.
The most feared event in a storm was a gun breaking loose: a big cannon might smash through the ship’s side. The gunner and his party worked from forward and secured them; each muzzle seized like an ox to the ringbolt above the closed gunport, with double breechings and side frappings. Finally, on deck, lifelines were rigged fore and aft on each side of the masts, and on the weather mizzen shrouds a canvas cloth was spread to break the blast for the helm crew.
Tenacious was now snugged for a blow. Kydd hoped that the same was true for the merchantman. What would probably be of most concern to her captain was the state of his noble passengers. However splendid their appointments, their cabins would now be a hell on earth: the motion would be such that the only movement possible would be hand to hand, their only rest taken tied into a wildly moving cot, their world confined to a box shaken into a malodorous, seasick chaos.
The ships plunged on into the angry seas. Aboard, muscles wearying of the continual bracing and staggering along the deck, eyes salt-sore in the raw cold and the streaming wet, Kydd made a circuit of the deck looking for anything that could conceivably fret itself into a rapidly spiralling danger. He checked little things, that the drain-holes of the boats were kept open, their deck-gripes bar-taut, spare spars under them lashed into immobility. When he stripped off in the damp fug of the wardroom, he could see his own concern reflected in others’ eyes, and Renzi wore a taut expression.
He pulled on wool: long undergarments, loose pullovers. Anything to keep out the sapping cold of the streaming wind.
This was no longer an exhilarating contest with Neptune, but something sinister. The first feelings of anxiety stole over Kydd – there was a point in every storm when the elements turned from hard boisterousness to malevolence, a sign that mankind was an interloper in something bigger than himself, where lives counted for nothing.
Back on deck Kydd had no need to check the compass to see that the wind had veered further: the angle of the treble-reefed topsails was now much sharper. If it continued much past south they stood to be headed, prevented from making for Nova Scotia to the west, no more than two days away.
Kydd could just make out a few words as he approached Houghton, who was talking to the master under the half-deck near the wheel: ‘ . . . or lie to, sir.’ Hambly pointed out over the foam-streaked seas. Beneath the wind-scoured waves a swell, long and massive, was surging up. And it came from the south-west, a portent of the great storm that had sent it.
Kydd glanced at the merchantman. They were but two days from port. So near, yet – Houghton had no authority over her and, indeed, if he had it was difficult to see how any meaningful signal could be made.
‘The monster crosses our way, sir, and I’m not sanguine of th’ chances of a wounded ship in a real North Atlantic storm,’ continued the master.
‘We stay with Lord Woolmer. That must be our duty,’ Houghton said abruptly.
Within the hour Woolmer began to turn – away from the wind.
‘She’s scudding!’ said Houghton.
‘No, sir, I do believe she wears.’ The ship continued round, slowly and uncomfortably, until she had come up on the opposite, starboard tack where she held a-try about four points from the wind.
‘I thought so!’ Hambly said, against the bluster of the wind at the edges of the half-deck. ‘He’s seen enough of the western ocean t’ know that if there’s a turn f’r the worse, the shift will come out of somewheres close to th’ north, and wants to get his staying about over with now.’ It also meant that Woolmer had given up hope of making it through to Halifax and now lay to under storm canvas, going very slowly ahead, waiting out the storm. Kydd’s heart went out to the passengers, who must be near to despair: storms could last weeks.
Tenacious was set to edging round to conform, and together the two vessels endured. By midday the seas had worsened and the wind’s sullen moan had keened to a higher pitch, a dismal drone with whistling overtones. The swell had increased and the depth between each crest became a dismaying plunge and rise.
Kydd had experienced Caribbean hurricanes, but this was of a different quality: the cold at its heart gave it a unique dark malice. Like the other officers, Kydd stayed on deck. At noon they took stale bread and cold tongue, biscuit and anchovies, then resumed their vigil.
Suddenly, a mass of panic-stricken men burst up from the after hatchway, spilling on to the deck, falling over themselves to be out. A chill stabbed at Kydd. A seaman shouted hoarsely, ‘Gotta loose gun!’
Bryant dropped his food and raced for the hatchway, shouting to Kydd, ‘A dozen micks – now!’
Because of the weather the hammocks had all been stowed below in the lowest deck. Kydd stood in the hatchway, snatching a dozen men to a halt. ‘Down t’ the orlop – we’ll go under.’ He plunged recklessly down the hatchway, praying they would follow. As he passed the level of the gun-deck he had a brief glimpse of a squat black creature crouching for the kill. He hurried on.
Finally in the orlop he paused to allow his eyes to adjust; then he set the men to work. In the wildly heaving gloom hammocks were passed up while Kydd cautiously entered the deserted gun-deck. The gun stood out brazenly from the ship’s side. The muzzle lashing had pulled its ringbolt from rotten wood and some weighty motion of the ship had subsequently caused the iron forging of the breeching tackle on one side to give way. The big cannon had swung out and, held by a few stranded ropes, was all but free.
Bryant stood to one side with a crew of seamen armed with handspikes. Kydd signalled to the first men to come up.
‘Stand your ground!’ the first lieutenant roared, at the men hesitating at his back. The whites of their eyes showed as they fearfully hefted their handspikes and waited for the order. When Kydd’s men had temporarily stopped the beast with hammocks thrown in its path, Bryant’s would hurl themselves on it with the handspikes in an attempt to overturn it.
Tenacious rose to a wave and fell to starboard. It was all that was needed; the remaining ropes parted with a dull twang and the twenty-four-pounder trundled across the deck, accelerating as it went. The men threw themselves back at the sight of
the unrestrained rampage while the cannon hurtled at the opposite side. Then the deck heaved the other way. The gun slowed and stopped, trickling back and forth in a grotesque parody of a bull-fight as the ship hesitated at the top of a roll. The next headlong charge might be the last.
‘Er, can we help?’ Lieutenant Best, accompanied by half a dozen marines, stood uncomprehending and hesitating at the hatchway.
‘No! Get ’em away.’ Kydd appreciated his courage but a crowd was not needed – only a handful of daring, active seamen. He glanced behind him: Chamberlain, the midshipman, with the agility of youth, Lamb, a spry topman, Thorn, steady and quick – he had enough.
‘Each a mick, an’ follow me – rest, wait until we has it cornered, then move in fast.’ He seized a trussed hammock for himself and moved forward, feeling the eyes of Bryant’s crew on him.
Tenacious’s bows rose to a comber. The deck canted up and the cannon suddenly rolled – towards him. Kydd threw the hammock before it and flung himself to one side. It thrust by, skidding on the hammock and fetched up against the mainmast with a splintering crash.
‘Chamberlain – here! Lamb ’n’ Thorn, get in behind it!’ He spotted Best, still hovering. ‘Get out of it,’ he snarled, and pushed the crestfallen officer away.
They must close in at whatever risk: Bryant’s crew could do nothing until the beast was stopped and then they had seconds only. The next few minutes would see heroes – or death. Warily he approached the cannon, trying to gauge the seas outside.
The bows began to rise again and he tensed, but the downward motion of the cannon abruptly changed course as the wave angled under her keel, and it rumbled headlong towards the ship’s side and where Best stood, paralysed with horror.
It happened very quickly: a fatal wavering and the two-ton monster caught him, snatched him along, and slammed against another – a choking squeal and a brief image of spurting blood, limbs and white bone. Best’s body was flung to the deck.
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