A lump grew in his throat. With these men he could . . .
A foaming giant of a wave took him full in the chest and sent him down in a choking flurry, handling him roughly until he brought up on the rope and finally found the hard sand under him. When he heaved himself up he saw that only two of his men were still standing, the rest a kicking tangle of legs and bodies.
Flailing forward Kydd tried again, feeling the spiteful urge of the sea as it pressed past him. At the next wave he gritted his teeth and forced himself to stand firm while the force of the water bullied past him unmercifully. As it receded he saw another beyond, even bigger.
The breaker tumbled him down and when he rose his forearm bore a long smear of blood. Trembling with cold and emotion, he had to accept that he and his men were utterly helpless.
He turned and staggered back to the shore, teeth chattering. Along the beach some fishermen had launched a boat, but as Kydd watched it reared violently over the first line of surf, the oars catching by some heroic means. By the third line, though, it had been smashed broadside and rolled over and over in a splintered wreck.
A strange writhing in the surf caught his eye: an unravelled bolt of some workaday cloth. The ship was breaking up and the cargo was coming ashore with other flotsam. The silent groups of watchers came to life and began wading about after it—this was what they had come for, thought Kydd, with a surge of loathing.
His heart went out to the black figures in the shrouds of the doomed ship, giving their very lives for this cargo—and as he watched, one plummeted into the sea without resisting, the last pitiful remnant of his strength spent in exhaustion and cold.
Kydd closed his eyes in grief. A fellow sailor had now given everything to the sea, perhaps an individual whose laughter at the mess-table had lifted the hearts of his shipmates, whose skills had carried the ship across endless sea miles . . .
A jumble of casks appeared at the water's edge and were immediately fallen upon, but evening was approaching and the light failing. Another figure dropped. Kydd turned away. When he looked again, the mainmast had given way and now many more lives were reaching their final moments. His eyes stung.
There were only three left in the mizzen shrouds when the first corpses arrived. Untidy bundles drifting aimlessly in the shallows, the ragged remains of humanity that had been so recently warm and alive.
As soon as the first body had grounded an onlooker was upon it, standing astride and bending to riffle through its clothes, checking the fingers for rings. It was too much—Kydd fell on the looter shouting hoarsely, until his men ran over and pulled him off.
When he had come to his senses, the mizzen was empty.
"Thank 'ee, you men," he said, gulping. "I don't think we c'n do any more here."
Not a word was spoken as they trudged up the wind-blown slopes, not a glance back. After Wiggle the hill descended the other side into the fisher village of Cawsand. And out in the bay was HMS Teazer. The lump in his throat returned as Kydd took in her sturdy lines, her trim neatness.
They made their way to the little quay and signalled. Even this far round the Rame the swell was considerable; there were still combers leaving white trails in their wake, but here the sting had been taken from the storm and the boat stroked strongly towards them.
Renzi was there to greet him as Kydd climbed aboard. When he saw Kydd's expression, he offered, "A wet of brandy may answer—"
But Kydd brushed him aside. "Mr Standish, I want a double tot f'r these hands. Now."
He stopped at another thought; but there was no need. In rough camaraderie their shipmates would certainly ensure that each one would be found a dry rig. But one thing at least was in his power: "An' they're t' stand down sea watches until tomorrow forenoon." An "all-night-in" was a precious thing at sea but if any deserved it . . .
He climbed wearily into his cot and slumped back, closing his eyes and hoping for sleep. It was not as if the evening's drama was unusual—it was said that the wild West Country had taken more than a thousand wrecks and would claim many more. Why should this one touch him so?
It was not hard to fathom. Head in the clouds with his recent good fortune and new prospects for high society, he had lost touch with the sterner realities of his sea world. The fates had warned him of what might befall his command should he fail to give the sea the attention it demanded.
A fitful sleep took him, troubling images flitting past. Could he be joined to Persephone in marriage and stay faithful to a puissant, jealous sea? Would she understand if—
He awoke and sat bolt upright, his senses quivering. In the darkness he felt the hairs on his neck rise in supernatural dread. Something was very wrong.
He tumbled out of the cot and stood motionless, listening acutely. Then it happened. The entire framework of his world was thrown into madness. Teazer's deep, regular sway and heave had stopped. For seconds at a time the deck was frozen at a canted angle, his body unconsciously adapting to the slope, the deckhead compass gimbals quite still.
Then, with an overloud creaking, the sea motion resumed as though nothing had happened. Dumbfounded, Kydd threw a coat over his nightgown and ran for the deck. It was teeming with rain, solid, blinding sheets in the darkness of the night. He heard shouts and running feet.
It happened again, this time preceded by a sickening thump and long-drawn-out groan of racked timbers. In horror Kydd stared into the night, trying desperately to make out the vessel that had driven foul of theirs, but saw and heard nothing. Men came boiling up from below, eyes white and staring as they tried to make sense of what was happening.
Dowse came on deck, also in night attire and hurried over. "Sir, we're in dire peril. This is a ground sea, sir!"
When the height of a wave exceeded twice the depth of water, a vessel in its trough could actually touch the seabed. In the gale such a swell had developed, and now, with an ebbing tide, they were being dumped bodily against the bottom of the sea. No ship could take such punishment for long before it was racked to pieces.
"Turn up th' hands!" roared Kydd. "All hands on deck!"
He looked at Dowse. "T' sail her out, or warp?" But he knew before the words were out that warping or kedging off without boats that could live in white water was not possible. They had to get sail on, and very quickly.
The men began to assemble at their parts-of-ship, the petty officers loudly taking charge. Standish and then Purchet came to Kydd, their faces white and strained. "Sir?"
"Get the carpenter t' stand by the wells an' sound 'em every ten minutes. He's t' send word instantly there's sign of a breach."
He snatched a glance into the dark rigging: Teazer had already snugged down for the blow, rolling tackles reeved and double gaskets passed round the courses. This meant that seamen had to move up into the pitch-dark rigging and out along the yards in the driving rain to cut away the gaskets by feel alone, a desperately dangerous thing where a misplaced handhold on an invisible rain-slick spar would mean a sudden fall. And all the time their whole world would be jerking and swaying in crazy motion across the sky.
It was Kydd's duty to order the men aloft. There was no alternative: too many lives depended on it. He did not hesitate. "Mr Standish, the carpenter t' take his axe an' stand by the cable. I'd be obliged should you take charge in th' foretop while I'll take th' main. Mr Dowse will remain on deck an' give orders f'r a cast t' larb'd and out."
He demanded of a dumbfounded seaman his belt and knife, then filled his lungs and roared, "All hands—lay out an' loose!"