Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

"What do you see?" Houghton bellowed from below.

Kydd swept the telescope to each side of the pyramid. Nothing. Tantalisingly he caught brief glimpses of it, now getting sharper and larger, but there was never enough time to fix on it. He prepared to lean over to hail the deck, then noticed wan sunlight shafting down close to it. He would give it one last try.

A glitter of light moved across the sea towards it. He raised his telescope—and saw it transformed. "Deck hooo! An ice island!"

The whole incident had gone unnoticed by the convoy, for the height-of-eye of Tenacious 's lofty masts ensured she saw it well before any other, but all were able to take their fill of the majestic sight as they passed hours later. Up close, it was not all pure white: there were startling pale blues, greens and dirty blotches— and such a size! There was an awed silence along the decks as men came up to stare at the silent monster from the frozen north.

The wind died, leaving a lethargic swell and the ship creaking and groaning under a dull, pearly sky. While Houghton paced up and down in frustration, Kydd noticed one of the larger vessels of the convoy far to the leeward edge. As with all ships, her sails hung lifeless from her yards but for some reason she had none on her foremast, not even headsails. "Odd," he mused to the master. Then a signal jerked hastily aloft from her mizzen peak halliards. Without wind to spread the flags it was impossible to make out the message, but there was clearly activity on deck.

"Damn the fellow!" Houghton snapped. Virtually dead in the water, there was little Tenacious could do to investigate further.

"I thought so," the master said, seeing the dead white of a fogbank advancing stealthily in eddying wreaths that hugged the sea surface and eventually engulfed the ship in a blank whiteness. The muffled crump of two guns sounded from somewhere within the white barrier; in conjunction with the flags this was the agreed signal for distress.

Houghton stopped. All eyes turned towards him. They could not lie idle if there were souls in need of them.

"Away launch, if you please, Mr Pearce." He paused to consider. "A bo'sun's mate and ten men, and we'll have two carpenter's mates in with 'em—and pass the word for the surgeon."

He looked about the deck and caught Kydd's eye. "See what all the fuss is about, Mr Kydd. If the ship is at hazard of foundering and our men can save her, do so. Otherwise advise her master in the strongest terms that a King's ship is not to be troubled in this way." Kydd knew perfectly well why he had been selected for this duty—as the most junior officer, he would be the least missed if he were lost in the fog.

As the yardarm stay tackles were hooked on to the boat Houghton added, "Take an arms chest too, Mr Kydd." Some of the ships carried convicts for the defensive works in St John's.

Kydd went to his cabin and found his sword, part of the uniform and authority of a naval officer when boarding a strange vessel. Tysoe helped fasten the cross strap and buckle on his scabbard sling. "Nothing but a merchantman all ahoo." Kydd chuckled at the sight of his grave expression.

"Get a boat compass," Kydd told Rawson, as he came back on deck. Seamen tumbled into the big launch, then helped sway down the arms chest; there was no point in shipping mast and sails in the flat calm.

Rawson returned with a small wooden box with a four-inch compass set in gimbals. Kydd had the bearing of the hapless vessel and checked that the indication with the boat compass was good. This was handed down, and he watched Rawson go aboard the launch, correctly wearing his midshipman's dirk. Kydd then went down the side, last to board.

"Take the tiller, if y' please," Kydd told Rawson, taking his place in the sternsheets. The surgeon sat patiently on the opposite side. "Why, Mr Pybus, you haven't any medicines?" he said, seeing no bag or chest.

"Oh? You know what it is then I must treat? Wounds, inflamed callibisters, one of a dozen poxes? I tried to persuade these brave fellows to load aboard my dispensary entire but . . ."

Houghton called down loudly from the ship's side: "I'll thank you to lose no time, Mr Kydd!"

"Aye aye, sir," Kydd threw back. "Get moving!" he muttered to Rawson.

"Fend off forrard," Rawson ordered. "Out oars—give way, together." Kydd gently wedged the compass into the bottom of the boat, careful to ensure there was no iron near. Their lives might depend on it.

The men stretched out. It was a good three miles to pull but conditions were ideal: not any kind of sea and the air was cool and dry—it might be different in the fogbank. Kydd saw that Thorn, the stroke oar, was pulling well, long and strong and leaning into it. He was a steady hand with a fine gift for ropework. Further forward was Poulden, who, Kydd vowed to himself, he would see as a petty officer in Tenacious.

Rawson stood with the tiller at his side, his eyes ahead. "Mr Rawson," Kydd said quietly, "you haven't checked your back bearing this last quarter-mile."

The youth flashed an enquiring glance astern at the diminishing bulk of Tenacious, and looked back puzzled.

Kydd continued mildly, "If we're runnin' down a steady line o' bearing, then we should fin' that where we came from bears exactly astern. If it doesn't, then . . ." At the baffled response Kydd finished, "Means that we're takin' a current from somewheres abeam. Then we have t' allow for it if we want to get back, cuf-fin." He had been checking surreptitiously for this very reason.

The white blankness of the fogbank approached and suddenly they left a world with a horizon, a pale sun and scattered ships, and entered an impenetrably white one, where the sun's disc was no longer visible, its light wholly diffused and reduced to a weak twilight. Men's voices were muffled and a dank moisture lay on everything as a tiny beading of slippery droplets.

They pulled through the wreathing fog-smoke, Kydd making certain of their course—its reciprocal would lead them back to their ship. Paradoxically the heavy breathing of the men at the oars sounded both near yet far in the unpleasant atmosphere that was weighing heavy on his sleeves and coat and trickling down his neck from his hat.

"Sir?" Poulden cocked his head intently on one side. "Sir! I c'n hear a boat!"

"Oars!" snapped Kydd. The men ceased pulling. "Still! Absolute silence in the boat!" They lay quietly, rocking slightly. It was long minutes of waiting, with the cheerful gurgle and slap of water along the waterline an irritating intrusion. Men sat rigid, avoiding eyes, listening.

Then there was something. A distinct random thump, a bang of wood against wood and a barely synchronised squeaking, which could only be several oars in thole pins or rowlocks—and close.

It was probably innocent, but what boat would be abroad in these conditions without good reason? The sound faded, but just as Kydd was about to break the silence it started again somewhat fainter—but where? The swirling clammy white was a baffling sound trap, absorbing and reflecting, making guesses of direction impossible.

Kydd felt a stab of apprehension. "Break out the arms—I'll take th' tiller. Quickly!" he hissed.

The wooden chest emptied quickly. Cutlasses were handed along with a metallic slither, one or two tomahawks, six boarding pistols. Kydd saw that they were ready flinted and prayed that the gunner's party had them loaded. He drew his sword. The fine-edged weapon, which had seemed so elegant, now felt flimsy and insubstantial beside the familiar broad grey steel of a cutlass.

He laid the naked blade across his knees and experimentally worked the tiller. Rawson fingered his dirk nervously, but the surgeon lolled back with a bored expression. He had no weapon and, in reply to Kydd's raised eyebrows, gave a cynical smile.