Easing out to seaward their shelter diminished: Gribbin Head itself was near hidden in spume, driven up by the combers smashing into its rocky forefoot, and Teazer rolled wickedly as she passed by.
But was this the right decision? Should they continue? As with so many havens in Cornwall Fowey was south-westerly facing, which was perfect for entry but dead foul for leaving. It would be nothing less than a token of surrender to the elements should Kydd cause Teazer to run for shelter unnecessarily.
He sent word for the master. "Mr Dowse, what's your opinion o' this blashy weather? Will it blow over, do y' think?"
Dowse pursed his lips and studied the racing clouds. There was a line of pearlescence along the horizon to the south in dramatic contrast to the dour greys and blacks above. "Glass's been steady these two watches," he said carefully, "an' it's been an uncommon long blow f'r this time o' the year . . ."
"We go on, then," Kydd decided.
". . . but, mark you, the glass hasn't risen worth a spit, an' the wind's still in the sou'-west. Could be it gets worse afore it gets better."
"So y' think it'll stay like this, Mr Dowse?"
"M' advice t' ye, sir—an' it not bein' my place t' say so—is to bide a while in Fowey an' see what happens t'morrow."
To continue would be to set out on a long stretch of coast exposed to the full force of the gale and a dead lee shore before reaching Rame Head. But if they did, they could round the headland and enter the security of the enfolding reaches of Plymouth Sound itself and, with its capaciousness, be able to tack out and resume their voyage whenever they chose.
Yet if they set out for the Rame and the elements closed in, there was no port of consequence before the Sound to which they could resort and there would be no turning back to beat against the gale to Fowey.
It all hinged on the weather.
"Thank you, Mr Dowse, but I believe we'll crack on t' the east'd. I'll be obliged for another reef, if y'please." Kydd turned to go below; this stretch would be the most extreme and he wanted to face it in a fresh set of dry clothes.
As he passed down the hatchway he heard the quarter-master above comment wryly, "Always was a foul-weather jack, our Tom Cutlass."
His unseen mate answered savagely, "Yeah, but it sticks in me gullet that we has t' go a-floggin' up the coast in this howler jus' so he c'n be with his flash dolly."
Kydd stopped in shock. It wasn't the resurrection of his old nickname, or that his romantic hopes were common knowledge, but the wounding assumption that he would have another motive for doing his duty. He hesitated, then slipped below.
By Pencarrow Head the force of the seas was noticeably stronger, but Kydd put it down to their more exposed position and pressed on. It was unlikely in the extreme that the privateer would choose this open stretch of coast to lie low but he had his duty and with life-lines rigged along the decks and several anchors bent on they took the seas resolutely on their quarter and struck out for Rame Head.
It seemed that the weather was not about to improve—indeed, within the hour the master was reporting that the glass was falling once more and the wind took on a savage spite, spindrift being torn from wavecrests and Teazer reverting to a staggering lurch.
It was getting serious: the rapidity with which the change had occurred was ominous for the immediate future and extreme measures for their survival could not be ruled out. "Stand us off a league," Kydd shouted to Dowse, above the dismal moan of the wind and the crashing of their passage. It was the one advantage they had, that essentially they were driving before the wind, with all that it meant for staying a course.
They laid Looe Island to leeward, nearly invisible in the flying murk and began the last perilous transit of Whitsand Bay, which was in the worst possible orientation for the weather, completely open to the rampaging gales direct from the Atlantic and virtually broadside on to the driving surf.
But, blessedly, the grey bulk of Rame Head was emerging from the clamping mist of spray ahead—and directly beyond was Plymouth Sound. At this rate they would make the security of the Sound well before dark. Teazer was taking the pounding well, and under close-reefed topsails was making good progress. They could always goosewing the fore and hand what remained of the main topsail—they were going to make it safely to port.
A confused shouting sounded from forward: it was a lookout, now on the foredeck and pointing out to leeward. Kydd saw a lonely sail, deep into the sweep of Whitsand Bay. He pulled out his pocket telescope and trained it on the vessel.
If it was the privateer he could see no way in which he could join action—the seas alone would prevent the bulwark gun ports opening, and on this horrific lee shore—but the snatches of image he caught were sufficient to tell him it was not.
As close-hauled as possible, the vessel was nearly up with the first parallel line of breakers. "He's taking a risk, by glory," Standish said.
Dowse came up and shook his head. "Seen it before," he said sadly. "The Rame mistook f'r Bolt Head, an' now embayed, all the time th' wind's in the sou'-west."
The ship had realised its mistake too late, put about into the wind—and found that it was too deep into the bay. Square-rigged and unable to keep closer to the wind than six points off, the master had no alternative other than to claw along on one tack as close to the wind as he could get the vessel to lie, inching her seaward, and when the end of the semi-circular bay was reached, be forced to stay about and on another reach do the same until the opposite end was reached. Then the process would be repeated yet again.
As Kydd watched, the drama intensified. By the cruellest stroke, the south-westerly was exactly at right-angles to the bay and leeway made by the forced putting about at each end was remorselessly matching the small amount of sea room gained on each tack. The vessel was trapped: they were doing the only thing possible and it was not enough; but if they did nothing they would quickly be driven downwind on to the pitiless shore.
With a stab of compassion Kydd realised that this cruel state of balance had probably begun at first light when their situation had become clear, and therefore they had been at this relentless toil all day—they must be close to exhaustion, knowing that if they fumbled just one going about, their deaths would follow very soon.
"Th' poor bastards!" breathed Dowse, staring downwind at the endless parallel lines of combers marching into the last broad band of surf.
Standish seemed equally affected. "Sir, can we not . . ." He trailed off at the futility of his words. It was plain to everyone watching that Teazer could do nothing, for if they turned and went in, they themselves would be embayed, and any boats they sent would be blown broadside and overset, oars no match for the savage winds.
Kydd's heart went out to the unknown sailors: they must have been in fear of their lives for hours. How they must have prayed for the mercy of a wind change—only a point or two would have been enough to escape the deadly trap.
He turned on the master. "Lie us to, Mr Dowse," he snapped. This would see them hold Teazer's head a-try with balanced canvas and going ahead only slowly, keeping her position. The poor devils in the other ship would see this and at the very least know that there were human beings in their universe who empathised with their fate.
The afternoon wore on; the wind stayed unwavering in the same direction and the desperate clawing of the other ship continued. It could not last: some time during the night its crew's strength must fail and the sea would claim them. It was so unfair. Two ships separated only by distance; one to sail on to safety and rest, life and future, but the other condemned to death in the breakers.