Julian Stockwin - 19 The Baltic Prize (Thomas Kydd #19)

Get a line ashore and secured high in the rigging, then range it back to the launch’s mast step. That would be the means to bring out the sailors, lofted over the fiendish dark sunken rocks and back to the world of men.

‘Mr Bray – here’s what we have to do.’

The first lieutenant roared his orders with all the force of his pent-up frustration and men leaped to obey.

The launch was manned and lines, tackle and blocks thrown aboard. Bray boarded.

On impulse, Kydd joined him in the sternsheets. ‘Carry on, Mr Bray,’ he said, to his surprised first lieutenant, who made room for him, setting the boat under oars and heading in.

‘Bit of a current,’ he muttered, working the tiller irritably. It had to be seas swirling around the point, which were meeting their bows and going on to push them off course, but it triggered a prickling apprehension in Kydd.

On the wreck, men saw them approaching and figures raised themselves out of their stupor. Arms waved but some simply stared vacantly.

Fifty yards off, they were nearing the foaming outer crags. They could go no further.

The kedge anchor plunged in at the bows and quickly caught – but the launch immediately slewed about to face into the current and Kydd’s presentiment returned in full force. With a sickening certainty he watched the bowman secure a light line to the small keg and cast it into the sea well up against the current flow – then saw it whisked downstream and away before it could make its way inshore to a small group of Fenellas stumbling and reaching.

In an agony of impossibility Kydd took in the second try, the bowman’s arm wrenching in pain at the effort. And one more, two.

His mind replayed a scene from another place, another time – the Devon coast, a forlorn wreck with men clinging to it, his doomed attempt to get a line to them, the hours of trying, the cruel and bleak finality, bodies washing in the breakers.

Within a hundred yards, the figures on Fenella ’s carcass were now unmoving, still. They would know in their hearts that all that could be done had been played through, and now they must face their end while others looked on, utterly helpless.

There – on the crazily canted quarterdeck – a lone figure, struggling upright. It was waving, but not in farewell. A deliberate gesture, repeated. Crossed arms over the breast – the naval distant signal to belay, to secure, to abandon.

It had to be Bazely. In his last hour, telling them it was hopeless and to save themselves.

Hot tears pricked Kydd’s eyes. That he must now be witness to his friend’s death – it was too much and a ragged lump of misery formed.

Suddenly, like a madman, he flung himself forwards to the bowman, who stood still, stricken. He snatched at the line and brought it in furiously hand over hand until the keg bumped at the gunwale. He slashed at the lashing and when the thin line was free, stripped to his shirt and breeches, fumbling for his belt, tying the rope in a bowline to it, sliding the result around to the small of his back.

‘S-sir?’ the man said, bewildered.

Kydd could say nothing, still choked by emotion. Ignoring him, in one awkward move he twisted over the side and into the sea.

The water was bitterly cold and took his breath away.

No real swimmer, he struck out for his life, angling high up into the deadly current, aware of vague shouting from the boat. He didn’t care, crazily stroking as if pursued by all the demons of Hell.

Salt stung his eyes as waves seethed over him, the cold reaching deep, paralysing. The shore was getting nearer but it was a tiny, precious patch of sand he had to reach or his despairing mission would finish in the victorious, surging sea, eviscerating him among the jagged outcrops.

A glancing blow to his leg shocked him and he saw that he’d been carried down past his landing spot. In a frenzied, all-or-nothing bid he redoubled his thrashing but his limbs were now lead weights and he felt himself tiring, flagging. He struck out wildly in a last desperate flailing – but was knocked askew by his arm nearly being wrenched from its socket. Disoriented, he tried to make sense of it but then the other arm was gripped and he was pulled bodily forwards – a sailor clutched by others had gone into the sea and laid hold of him.

Utterly exhausted he could do nothing as he was manhandled into the shallows and flopped over. And staring down at him, eyes feverish and caring was Bazely. ‘You chuckle-headed simkin!’ he croaked. ‘A gooney juggins who thinks to—’ His face suddenly contorted and he looked away.

There was fumbling at the line at his back. ‘It’s a jackstay,’ Kydd choked. ‘Take it to your shrouds … travelling block … over the rocks.’

Bazely stopped him. ‘As if I’ve never heard o’ how to rig such!’ he growled, then added, in a low voice, ‘Leave it t’ me now, Tom. Ye’ve done your piece.’

He tore off his coat and tenderly wrapped it around Kydd. ‘Things t’ do, cuffin, will get back.’

Chapter 57

‘He’s safe, b’gob!’ the master breathed.

Brice snatched back his telescope and looked for himself. ‘Praise be, an’ he is.’

Mr Midshipman Rowan forced himself to a calm. In the drama of the moment, the captain had thrown himself into the sea, a famous and important frigate captain. Why hadn’t he called for volunteers or some such? He certainly now had enough salty yarns about service at sea with the legendary Captain Kydd to keep the boys at the naval school in thrall for hours.

He was allowed a peep through the glass. It was confusing at first: the sagging wreck with figures crawling on it, the web of rigging hanging down in a tangle. Then he saw that the tackle was hauled in and being fastened high up in the shrouds, a single impossibly thin line in a catenary curve above the rocks and down to the launch. This was seamanship of the highest order and he watched in awe before Lieutenant Bowden claimed the glass.

Soaring above the rocks, then splashing into the sea, the first man was hauled in to the launch. Tyger ’s barge and cutter were on hand to ferry batches of rescued men back from the pierhead to the frigate, but for some reason the first survivor was brought straight aboard Tyger .

‘Respec’s from Commander Bazely an’ he’s got news f’r the admiral as won’t wait,’ the man panted.

Bowden stepped forward. ‘You have intelligence for the commander-in-chief?’

‘The Russkies – they’ve moored fore ’n’ aft, sent down topmasts, unbent canvas. They’s going nowhere, he thinks. And f’r numbers, he says—’

‘Thank you, we’ll get this to Admiral Saumarez this hour. Mr Brice, take away the pinnace and report to flag without delay.’

Brice bellowed for the boat’s crew and, seeing Rowan, beckoned to him. ‘You have the boat, Mr Rowan.’

A stab of fear and excitement seized him. For the first time he was to act the real sailor in a mission of war!

Heart in his mouth, he swung over to the rope-ladder and down into the pinnace as fast as he could manage, seamen’s hands reaching up to steady him as he boarded and took up position in the sternsheets. Feverishly he went over the routines: check the rudder was secure in its pintles, the tiller ropes led fair, the bottom boards in place out of the way.

‘Prove the bowman!’ he piped, as authoritatively as he could.

The man forward raised his hand. ‘Aye aye,’ he called.

‘Prove stroke!’

The seaman throwing off the lashing of the main-sheet tackle looked up at him in surprise.

Of course – they were going out under sail. ‘Very good. Carry on,’ he managed.