'We march!' he growled. He hailed the fort again. 'We go on, sir! Chance o' some rations — an' some water?'
The officer removed his hat. 'Very commendable, my man. I will see to it.' His figure disappeared downwards.
'There is a choice, yer knows.' The older seaman confronted him, his eyes fixing Kydd's. 'We're not in kilter fer a long piece o' walkin' so we 'as ter do what we must - we gives it all away, we got nothin' ter worry of, not like them royalists, we'll get treated square . ..'
Kydd's fist slammed into the man's stomach, doubling him over. The next blow took him on the chin, knocking him to the dust, where he lay sullenly feeling his jaw. Kydd turned back to the fort.
A bucket on the end of a piece of rope appeared. In it, covered by a grey blanket, were army biscuits, two cooked haunches of rabbit and a hand of bananas. Three canteens of water followed. 'March!' Kydd ordered. They stepped off, the fallen man left to catch up. As they rounded a curve he saw the officer still looking in their direction. The marines had a rhythm of marching that was relaxed and economic, but the seamen were fast becoming tired and slow.
'Up there,' Kydd said suddenly, pointing at the sugarcane field. They stared at him dully. 'Are ye thinkin' of walkin' all th' way?' It didn't need much smart thinking to realise that cane-fields had carts for the cut cane, and these would be pulled by horses or some other animal.
It was more difficult than it appeared. 'Don' be daft!' One of the marines, an ex-farmhand, chuckled, and took the reins from Kydd's hands. Kydd surrendered them gratefully. The single ox was placid but sure, and the sugar-cane cart jerked forward. Sprawled in the back were his men, and he had provided for them. Before he fell asleep under the hot sun, Kydd felt a certain satisfaction.
Fort Mathilda was small, but built securely into the rock of the coast. A surprised lieutenant met them inside the gates and asked immediately about the situation in Pointe a Pitre. Then the little fort stood to, awaiting the inevitable.
It wasn't long in coming: rising dust clouds inland showed the approach of a substantial column — but the satisfying sight of men-o'-war coming round the point with Trajan in the van settled their fate in a much more agreeable way.
Chapter 5
The deck of a ship at dawn was the most beautiful sight he could think of, Kydd decided. Even the swish and slop of the men swabbing the deck did not intrude. The easy, domestic sounds in the cool of the early morning were balm to his troubled soul.
The quality of the dawn light on the anchored ship was of a gossamer hesitancy, a soft emerging of colour through grey; the tropical sea began its transition from dark grey-blue anonymity to its usual striking transparent greens and deep-water blue. Within the hour it would bear the hard glitter of the sun, and this magical time would be dismissed into memory. A sigh forced itself on him. The land with all its brutal ways could now be relinquished for the sea — the pure, stern, manly sea. A smile broke through. Renzi had not yet returned to Trajan from the brig of refugees, but they would have much to talk about when he did.
The line of men had nearly reached the half-deck. The men on the poop had finished and were stowing wash-deck gear. Stirk sauntered over to Kydd. 'D'ye fancy ter step ashore agen, cully?' he said, nodding to the palm-studded coast not a mile away, the sun's light playing stronger on the mass of deep greens and dark ravines of the interior.
'Wish t' hell I could, Toby,' Kydd said lightly. 'Had m'self a thunderin' good time ashore, the women an' all. ..'
Stirk kept his smile, but his eyes searched Kydd's face. 'Did 'ear 'twas bad cess, them Crapauds, a-killin' their own kind like they did.'
Kydd's tone changed. 'If they does, only leaves less f'r us.' His hands whitened on the rope he held, and his face turned seawards. 'Bolderin' weather to the nor'east'd,' he said firmly. From the direction of the reliable north-east trade winds the clouds were piling up, more than the usual wet-season rain squalls. It would mean soaked shirts for all again that afternoon.
'Haaaands to unmoor ship!'
At last! Out to sea, away from the nightmarish memories. From his position in the mizzen-top Kydd could see both accompanying frigates weigh and proceed, a satisfying picture in the trade winds of the open sea. Trajan cast to starboard when she had won her anchor and followed in their wake.
When he came on deck after the midday meal for his watch at the conn, the weather was clamping in. On the quarterdeck, Kydd took position next to the helm, and noticed Auberon's set expression. He was gazing at the easterly horizon, at the growing darkness — a peculiar darkness in the clouds, which had an ugly copper tinge. There was also a swell that was out of keeping with the wave patterning, a deepening, driven swell that told of a mighty storm somewhere, raging and lashing. And it was from the north-east.
Auberon rounded on the duty midshipman. 'M'duty to the Captain, and I would be happy to see him join me on deck,' he snapped.
Bomford did not waste time, appearing in his shirtsleeves and without his hat. Auberon merely indicated. 'Sir.'
Bomford paused for only seconds. 'Pass the word for Mr Quist,' he said quietly. The sailing master knew these waters well.
The warrant officer deliberated for long minutes. 'In my opinion, sir, it looks very like a hurricanoe.' He used a telescope to traverse the front of the approaching storm. 'I cannot be sure o' more, 'cepting we must shape a more southerly course an' run.'
Bomford looked at him sharply. 'Why southerly, if you please?'
'Sir, in these parts, if y' faces into the wind then ye'll find the centre of the storm nine, ten points on y'r right hand — an' this means we needs t' be athwart it directly.'
There was no denying the quiet authority in the man's voice. This was a man who had prevailed in the devastating hurricane that had decimated Rodney's fleet in these very waters less than a dozen years earlier. The master lifted an eyebrow and looked at the Captain. 'We can't outrun it — whether we're a-swim on the morrow or no depends squarely on the winds, gentlemen. In the next few hours, if the wind backs, with God's protection we're safe — mauled an' bedundered but we'll live. If th' wind veers . ..'
'Very well,' Bomford said. A moment's flash of uncertainty shadowed his face. Then he turned to Auberon. 'Do you bear away to the south'ard, and pipe the starbowlines on deck. I believe we will clear away and batten down.'
There had been other times, in other ships, when Kydd had worked to snug a vessel down for dirty weather but this was different: an apprehensive urgency was building, a knowledge that their very lives could depend on the tightness of a splice, the strength of a preventer. Details now were a matter of life or death.
As quartermaster's mate Kydd held allegiance in the first instance to the sailing master. Quist was calm but firm. There would be nothing left to chance that could conceivably be met by forethought and diligence. For the first time Kydd saw extreme measures being taken at sea, and he absorbed it all.
Quist's first care was to the rudder. If it carried away under stress of weather they could easily broach to, broadside to the deadly combers, and the result would be inevitable — they would be rolled over to their doom. The little party made its way below to the wardroom flat, aft on the gundeck. There, the true origin of control of the rudder lay: the mighty twenty-six-foot length of a tiller, high up just under the deckhead, connected by tackle and an endless rope up through the decks to the wheel-drum. As Kydd watched, it creaked and moved with the motions of the unseen helmsman high above, with its powerful leverage ready to sweep from one side of the deck to the other.