"Report, if y' please." The man scrambled over the thwarts. "This fog. How long does it last?"
The man shrugged. "Hours, days—weeks mebbe." No use, then, in waiting it out. "Gets a bit less after dark, but don't yez count on it," he added.
"What depth o' water have we got hereabouts?" It might be possible to cobble together a hand lead for sounding, or to get information on the sea-bed. He vaguely remembered seeing on the chart that grey sand with black flecks turned more brown with white pebbles closer to the Newfoundland coast.
"Ah, depends where we is—fifty, hunnerd fathoms, who knows ?"
There was nowhere near that amount of line to be found in the boat. Kydd could feel the situation closing in on him. "Er, do you ever get t' see th' sun?"
"No. Never do—like this all th' time." The man leaned back, regarding Kydd dispassionately. It was not his problem. "Y' c'n see the moon sometimes in th' night," he offered cynically.
The moon was never used for navigation, to Kydd's knowledge, and in any case he had no tables. There was no avoiding the stark fact that they were lost. There were now only two choices left: to drift and wait, or stake all on rowing in a random direction. The penalty on either was a cold and lengthy death.
"We got oars, we get out o' this," muttered one sailor to stroke oar. There were sufficient undamaged oars to row four a side, more than needed; but the comment crystallised Kydd's thinking.
"Hold y'r gabble," Kydd snapped. "We wait." He wasn't prepared to explain his reasons, but at the very least waiting would buy time.
The fog took on a dimmer cast: dusk must be drawing in. Now they had no option but to wait out the night. Danger would come when the cold worked with the damp of the fog and it became unendurable simply to sit there.
In the chaloupe the French sat tensely, exchanging staccato bursts of jabber—were they plotting to rise in the night? And now in the launch his men were talking among themselves, low and urgent.
He could order silence but as the dark set in it would be unenforceable. And it might cross their minds to wait until it was fully dark, then fall upon Kydd and the others, claiming they had been killed in the fight. The choices available to Kydd were narrowing to nothing. He gripped the tiller, his glare challenging others.
For some reason the weight of his pocket watch took his notice. He'd bought it in Falmouth, taken by the watchmaker's claims of accuracy, which had been largely confirmed by the voyage so far. He took it out, squinting in the fading dusk light. Nearly seven by last local noon. As he put it back he saw derisive looks, openly mocking now.
Night was stealing in—the fog diffused all light and dimmed it, accelerating the transition, and soon they sat in rapidly increasing darkness.
"All's well!" Laffin hailed loyally.
"Poulden?" Kydd called.
"Sir." The man was fast becoming indistinct in the dimness.
As if to pour on the irony the dull silver glow of a half-moon became distinguishable as the fog thinned a little upward towards the night sky. If only . . .
Then two facts edged from his unconscious meshed together in one tenuous idea, so fragile he was almost afraid to pursue it. But it was a chance. Feverishly he reviewed his reasoning—yes, it might be possible. "Rawson," he hissed. "Listen to this. See if you c'n see a fault in m' reckoning."
There was discussion of southing, meridians and "the day of her age" and even some awkward arithmetic—but the lost seamen heard voices grow animated with hope. Finally Kydd stood exultant. "Out oars! We're on our way back, lads."
They broke free of the fogbank to find the convoy still becalmed, and away over the moonlit sea the silhouette of a 64-gun ship-of-the-line that could only be Tenacious.
A mystified officer-of-the-watch saw two man-o'-war boats hook on as the missing Kydd came aboard. At the noise, the captain came out on deck. "God bless my soul!" Houghton said, taking in Kydd's wounds and empty sword scabbard.
"Brush with th' enemy, sir," Kydd said, as calmly as he could. "Compass knocked t' flinders, had to find some other way back."
"In fog, and at night? I'd be interested to learn what you did, Mr Kydd."
"Caused us quite some puzzling, sir, but I'll stake m' life that Mr Rawson here would be very pleased to explain th' reasoning."
Rawson started, then said smugly, "Oh, well, sir, we all knows that f'r any given line o' longitude—the meridian, I mean—the moon will cross just forty-nine minutes after the sun does, and falls back this time for every day. After that it's easy."
"Get on with it, then."
"Well, sir, we can find the moon's southing on any day by taking the day of her age since new, and multiplying this by that forty-nine. If we then divide by sixty we get our answer—the time in hours an' minutes after noon when she's dead in the south, which for us was close t' eight o' clock. Then we just picked up our course again near enough and—"
Houghton grunted. "It's as well Mr Kydd had such a fine navigator with him. You shall take one of my best clarets to the midshipmen's berth." Unexpectedly, the captain smiled. "While Mr Kydd entertains me in my cabin with his account of this rencontre."
Chapter 5
THE NEWFOUNDLAND CONVOY was now safely handed over off St John's, along with Viper and Trompeuse, the ship signalling distress in the fog missing, presumed lost. Tenacious hauled her wind to sail south alone to land her French prisoners and join the fleet of the North American station in Halifax.
As they approached there was a marked drop in temperature; chunks of broken ice were riding the deep Atlantic green of the sea and there was a bitter edge to the wind. Thick watch-coats, able to preserve an inner retreat of warmth in the raw blasts of an English winter, seemed insubstantial.
Landfall was made on a low, dark land. It soon resolved to a vast black carpeting of forest, barely relieved by stretches of grey rock and blotches of brown, a hard, cold aspect. Kydd had studied the charts and knew the offshore dangers of the heavily indented rock-bound coast flanking the entrance to Halifax.
"I'm advising a pilot, sir," the master said to the captain.
"But have you not sailed here before?" Houghton's voice was muffled by his grego hood, but his impatience was plain: a pilot would incur costs and possibly delay.
Hambly stood firm. "I have, enough times t' make me very respectful. May I bring to mind, sir, that it's less'n six months past we lost Tribune, thirty-four, within sight o' Halifax—terrible night, only a dozen or so saved of three hundred souls . . ."
While Tenacious lay to off Chebucto Head, waiting for her pilot, Kydd took in the prospect of land after so many weeks at sea. The shore, a barren, bleached, grey-white granite, sombre under the sunless sky, appeared anything but welcoming. Further into the broad opening there was a complexity of islands, and then, no doubt, Halifax itself.
The pilot boarded and looked around curiously. "Admiral's in Bermuda still," he said, in a pleasant colonial drawl. "Newfy convoy arrived and he not here, he'll be in a right taking."
Houghton drew himself up. "Follow the motions of the pilot," he instructed the quartermaster of the conn.
With a south-easterly fair for entry, HMS Tenacious passed into a broad entrance channel and the pilot took time to point out the sights. "Chebucto Head—the whole place was called Chebucto in the old days." The ship gathered way. "Over yonder," he indicated a hill beyond the foreshore, "that's what we're callin' Camperdown Hill, after your mighty victory. Right handy for taking a line of bearing from here straight into town."
Running down the bearing, he drew their attention to the graveyard of Tribune. Up on rising ground they saw the raw newness of a massive fortification. "York Redoubt—and over to starb'd we have Mr McNab's Island, where the ladies love t' picnic in summer."