Kydd felt a warmth of sympathy. They were better off where they were, out of sight of the heart-chilling insanity of the storm. He would go to them and try to say something encouraging, the least he could do. Holding on to anything to hand, Kydd made his way forward in the noisome obscurity.
But then his senses slammed in. The ponderous wrench at the beginning of the scend had disappeared, and a comparatively smooth rise completed the movement. There could only be one interpretation. With a constriction of his stomach Kydd knew that an empty cable was running now from the hawse. As if in confirmation, Trajan gave a fish-like wriggle as she careered astern. Kydd spun round. He hurried as fast as he could to make the upper deck, pulling along hand over hand. As he got to the base of the ladderway, a combined twist and jerk told him that Trajan had come up to her second anchor. 'Clear away th' sheet anchor!' Kydd heard the boatswain howl into the violence, as he breasted the coaming and came out into the turmoil.
Capple stared fiercely ahead to the foredeck where men fought and struggled. At every plunge they disappeared from view under an avalanche of white water. He noticed Kydd. 'Coral bottom!' he shouted. Coral was a deadly menace: it snarled and cut thick cables with razor-sharp edges and normally was never chosen for an anchorage.
A few yards forward Kydd saw Quist. He was yelling something indistinct, but ended by stabbing a finger at Kydd, then pointing forward. Kydd grabbed the wet hairiness of the midships life-line and hauled himself along the bucking deck to the starboard fore-chains, joining the men at the sheet anchor.
There was no immediate need for this last anchor they had, but they could leave nothing to chance. Kydd drew near and was nearly knocked off his feet by the green water sluicing aft. A cable to the sheet anchor had already been bent and seized in storm preparations, but anchoring in coral had not been foreseen.
'Keckling — get goin', Kydd,' the boatswain yelled. A coil of three-inch line was thrown at him; it thumped heavily into his chest. The seas roared against the side, burying the channel, the broad base of the shrouds fitted to the outside of the ship. Kydd caught his breath: he knew they were telling him to climb over the bulwarks and down on to that channel, to work at the stowed black mass of the sheet anchor and its cable.
He looked back resentfully at the row of men, who looked gravely back at him. They were older and more experienced but would be able to remain safely inboard. Then he understood: he had been chosen for this job because he was a better seaman than they.
The realisation warmed him, proofed him against the elements and, with-a jaunty wave, he swung over the bulwarks and dropped to the channel. It had crossed his mind to bend on a life-line around his waist, but if he was swept away then the sudden jerk at the end of the line might cut him in half. In any case the light line would get in the way.
The sea-glistening sides of the ship dipped slowly, and Kydd hung on grimly to the tarry shrouds. The expected seas came, first his feet, thighs, and then above his waist. A rushing torrent bullying and jostling, tearing at his hold on life. It seethed around the lower rigging and fittings with a deep hissing and roaring - then began to recede.
Kydd snatched a glance at the situation. His task was to apply keckling to the last yards of the cable as it came from the sheet anchor, wrapping his lighter line, and stout strips of canvas handed down to him, tightly about the strands of the cable. It was their only chance, the keckling their sole means to protect this last anchor from the deadly sharp coral and keep the ship from driving ashore.
The sheet anchor was lashed outside the shrouds, outside the channel, and Kydd was exposed to the seas. Edging around the aftermost shroud he stood on the iron curve of the flukes of the big anchor, then swung to the channel and shuffled along. Trajan rolled, the seas rose and battered and tugged at him. He held the thick shrouds in a death grip, pressing his face to their rough surfaces, feeling their sturdy strength.
The seas fell away as the ship began a laborious roll upwards. It was time to get to work. Kydd moved outboard of the anchor to the big ring beyond the stock. He waited for the surging seas to return and subside, then bent to begin. The rope had a mind of its own, snarling and writhing, but Kydd forced it round. More seas, but his work held, and when the dripping cable appeared, his keckling was still there. He worked feverishly, his arm hooked about the cable, but such was his concentration that when the next sea came it took him unawares -a momentary vision of the water within inches, then he was submerged, buffeted by giant forces while he hugged the cable, a maelstrom of roaring in his ears.
He emerged, bruised and gasping, his eyes stinging, a salty burning in his throat, but he went on grimly. His first sea friend, Bowyer, a deep-sea mariner of the very best kind, came to mind, and memories of lessons in the sea crafts, and he responded. Every working of cordage and cable would be the best he could manage.
Unexpectedly he felt a tug on his shoulder from above. Stirk's hand came out, and Kydd was hoisted bodily over the bulwarks. He sank to all fours with exhaustion, hearing Stirk's murmured words of encouragement — then noticed buckled shoes and silk stockings. He looked up to see- the Captain gazing down at him, then his slow nod of approval.
* * *
The second bower anchor gave way within the watch. It was terrifying to see the speed with which they were carried downwind towards the hard line of the shore. The sheet anchor, however, was ready and plunged into the sea almost immediately.
Now down to her last big anchor, Trajan's company were left with the bleak knowledge that if it parted then the ship would drive ashore — not on a sandy beach, but on the fringing reef a quarter of a mile offshore, its presence betrayed by wild breakers slamming high into the air. The vessel would break up fast on the massive coral heads, and when men struck out for their lives they would be slashed to ribbons in the breakers.
The daylight ebbed and the deck filled with silent men staring across the seas to their last sight of the land. Kydd went below to find something to eat, to bring strength to his weary body. It was sheltered below, the manic howl of the wind muted, its wearisome plucking and battering no longer worrying at his body.
The mess was deserted again, except for a small figure, head bowed, sitting alone at their mess-table. Puzzled, Kydd approached. It was Luke, a picture of misery. He did not look up as Kydd drew near.
'Hey now, skinker — light along some clacker f'r a starvin' mariner,' Kydd said breezily. Luke didn't respond.
'How's this? Messman f'r the petty officers, an' can't find 'em some vittles?' Kydd came to sit next to him. The bass rumble of some loose gear slamming against the hull forward sounded ominous and loud.
Luke said something in a low voice that Kydd was unable to catch. He leaned closer and saw that the boy had been crying. He hesitated, then put his arm round the lad's shoulders. Luke tensed then swayed and rested his head against Kydd.
'How's this? Pipin' the eye?' Kydd said kindly. 'Not as would be fittin' f'r a sailor, you'll agree, cuffin.'
Luke's muffled voice was certain. 'Mr Kydd, t'night I will be in hell.'
At a loss for words, Kydd could only squeeze his shoulders.
'I ain't been t' church much - an' that was only 'cos m' mother made me,' he continued, in stricken tones. 'An' - an' I lied t' her! See, I said as I'd go off t' work fer Uncle Jonathan away in Hounslow, an' I didn't. I ran off t' sea.'
Kydd saw with guilty clarity an image of a dusty church, a droning sermon and fiery words of sin, sentence and torment. Luke lifted his face, bright with tears, and blurted, 'I don't mean t' be wicked. When Mr Stirk gave me a grog, I didn't drink it, Mr Kydd, I threw it away — God's honour I did!'