Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

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 southwest, 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 bullfight 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.

Yet his sacrifice was the saving of the ship. Caught in the gun's small wheels his body caused the cannon to slew and stop. Kydd hurled his hammock in its path. Others threw themselves at it, Bryant's crew with handspikes levering furiously, frantically.

They had won.

Shaken, Kydd needed the open decks. Lord Woolmer lay to a mile or so away, taking seas on her bows in explosions of white, pitching and rolling under her scraps of sail.

Hambly was standing by the main shrouds, looking up at the racing dark clouds and the torn seascape. On seeing Kydd, he shouted, "We're takin' it more from the west, I fear." The rest of his words were snatched away by the wind's blast.

"And this means?" Kydd had not heard Houghton approach behind them. Hambly wheeled round, then respectfully accompanied them to the shelter of the half-deck.

"Sir, it means the centre o' the storm is placin' itself right in our path. We'll be down t' bare poles at this rate—we should really bear away an' scud instead of lyin' to. There's no hope this storm is goin' to blow itself out, sir."

Kydd wondered whether the real reason Woolmer was hanging on was the reluctance of her captain to deny his passengers hope of a harbour and surcease. To scud was to abandon all attempts even to hold a position and simply fly before the violence, but this was to turn about and be blown back over the miles they had won at such cost.

"I understand, Mr Hambly, but we stay with them."

Conditions were deteriorating and it was hard to keep them in sight: the air was filled with stinging spray, the motion of the ship becoming a shuddering heave as the seas grew more confused.