Julian Stockwin - Mutiny

The shank painter brought the stock of the anchor close and, working together, the two lines eventually persuaded the anchor to come to rest beneath the boat, hauled athwart the bottom, only the shank above water. The launch setded low in the water under the weight, the painters were secured to each other and they were ready.

Kydd again held up his arm, and the fall of the stay tackle was eased away until the boat had the full weight. Kydd's eyes darted round the boat — the dripping lines seemed in order, straining over the gunwales. He slid out his knife and, with a sailor gripping his belt, leaned far out and down into the water to get at the seizing of the suspending hawser. A vigorous sawing, and the thick rope fell free.

The deep-laden boat moved sluggishly; Kydd's men tugged at the oars with ponderous results. The sun was now uncomfortably high. They passed heavily down the length of the ship and, as they reached the stern, the end of a deep-sea lead line was thrown to them. This would be their measure of where to let the anchor go, and Kydd cleared it watchfully over the transom as they crabbed their way through the wind and waves.

He glanced back. A cable was being lowered through the mullioned windows of the captain's cabin into the smaller cutter; no doubt it would pass into the ship in a direct line to the lower capstan. That way there would be opportunity to man the capstans on both decks, doubling the force.

The cutter made good progress, and by the time the lead-line suddenly tautened, the cable was on hand, fully extended and ready to seize to the big forged-iron ring of the anchor. There was no need to wait for a signal from the ship: Kydd took up a boarding axe, and brought it down on the painters straining across the boat.

The severed ropes whipped away and, with a mighty bounce of the boat at the relieved buoyancy, the anchor plunged down. Now it was the turn of others — Kydd knew that the capstans would be manned by every possible soul. Bleakly he reminded himself of the penalties if they could not win the ship back to deep water.

Laying on their oars, the aching men in the launch waited and watched. The martial sounds of fife and drum sounded faindy; every effort was being made to whip them into a frenzy of effort. Time wore on, but Bacchante was not advancing to her anchor. Uneasily, Kydd threw a glance at the shore. The skyline was reassuringly innocent, but for how long?

The sun beat down. A peculiar smell - goats, dryness, sand — came irregularly on the light breeze that fluffed the sea into playful wavelets. It was peaceful in the boat, which was hardly moving in the slight sea, just the odd creak and chuckle of water.

The recall came after another twenty minutes. Kydd did not envy the captain in his decision - the ship was not moving. The next act would be to start water casks over the side, perhaps even the guns. And that would certainly mean the end of their mission, even if the move was successful.

Coming aboard again, Kydd could feel the tension. The captain was in earnest discussion with his officers on the quarterdeck. Renzi was there also; he regarded Kydd gravely, then cocked an eye at the shore. Kydd's saw that the low scrubby dunes were now stippled with figures.

'Moors — the Bedoo of the desert,' Renzi murmured, as Kydd took in the exotic scene; camels, strings of veiled Arabs still as statues, staring at the ship and more arriving.

Forward, men were grouping nervously. Everyone knew the consequences of being taken on the Barbary Coast. Renzi pursed his lips. 'It's not the Bedoo that should concern us,' he muttered. 'They can't get to us without boats. But your Moorish corsair, when he has his friends, and they make a sally together . . .'

The worried knot of officers around the captain seemed to come to a decision. Stepping clear of them, the boatswain lifted his call, but thought better of it, merely summoning the captain of the hold, a senior petty officer. 'Start all th' water over the side,' he ordered. Tons of fresh water gurgled into the scuppers from the massive leaguer casks swayed up from the hold.

'Rig guns to jettison.' Murmuring from forward was now punctuated with protests, angry shouts following the gunner's party as they moved to each gun, knocking free the cap-squares holding the trunnion to the carriage and transferring the training tackle to the eyebolt above the gunport. Now it only needed men hauling on the side-tackles and, with handspikes levering, the freed guns would tumble into the sea — and they would be defenceless.

A shout from a sharp-eyed sailor, who had seen something above the dunes along the coast, stopped progress. It rounded the point and hove to several miles off; twin lateen sails and a long, low hull gave no room for conjecture. 'We're dished,' said Kydd, in a low voice. 'There'll be others, and when they feel brave enough they'll fall on us.' Another vessel, and then another hauled into view.

The captain's face was set and pale as he paced. The master went to him diffidently, touching his hat. 'Sir, the ship settles in th' sand — if it gets a grip even b' inches, the barky'll leave her bones here.' He hesitated. 'I saw how Blonde frigate won free o' the Shipwash.'

'Go on.'

'They loose all sail, but braces to bring all aback — every bit o' canvas they had. Then ship's comp'ny takes as many round-shot as they c'n carry, doubles fr'm one side o' the deck to the other 'n' back. Th' rhythm breaks suction an' the ship makes a sternboard 'n' gets off.'

With a fleeting glance at the gathering predators, the captain told him, 'Do it, if you please.'

The master went to the wheel. 'I takes th' helm. Kydd, you're th' lee helmsman.' Kydd obediently took position and waited. Sail appeared, mast by mast, hesitantly, shrouds and stays tested for strain at the unaccustomed and awkward situation of the wind taking the sails on the wrong side.

'Mark my motions well. When we move, it'll be dead astern, an' if we mishandle, we'll sheer around an' it'll all be up wi' us,' the master warned. A ship going backwards would put prodigious strain on the rudder, and if they lost control it would slew sideways and slam the wind to the opposite side of the sails. At the very least this would leave Bacchante with broken rigging, splintered masts and the impossibility of getting away from the gathering threat.

Kydd gripped the spokes and stared doggedly at the master. His job, as leeward helmsman, was to add his weight intelligently to the effort of the lead helmsman, and he knew this would be a fight to remember.

Shot was passed up from the lockers in the bowels of the ship, each man taking two eighteen-pound balls. 'One bell to be ready, the second and you're off,' the first lieutenant called from the belfry forward.

One strike: the men braced. Another — they rushed across the deck, more perhaps of a reckless waddle. They turned, and the bells sounded almost immediately. They rushed back. Some saw the humour of the situation and grinned, others remained straight-faced and grave.

Twice more they ran. Kydd snatched a glimpse up at the bulging, misshapen sails fluttering and banging above; the men were panting now. The boatswain had a hand-lead over the side, and was staring grimly at its steady vertical trend.

Near him Kydd could hear a deep-throated creaking amid the discordant chorus of straining cordage. He dared not look away — the moment, if it came, would come suddenly. The bells and thumping feet sounded again — and again.

The deck shifted under Kydd's feet, an uneven rumbling from deep within, and the boatswain's triumphant shout: 'She swims!'

Forced by the wind, the frigate started to slide backwards. The wheel kicked viciously as the rudder was caught on its side. The master threw himself at the wheel to wind on opposite helm, Kydd straining with him, following his moves to within a split second. The pressure eased, but the ship increased speed backwards, at the same time multiplying the danger in proportion.