It was worrying that Cheslyn, a reputed North Atlantic mariner, was having trouble with this weather—until Kydd realised he might have other more mercenary reasons for a quick visit to Falmouth. "Bear up, there," he commanded the helmsman. "Course, west b' north."
The others flicked anxious glances at Cheslyn, and Kydd wondered darkly what tales of sea-woe he had been spinning to them. "This I'll do," he said. "Should th' glass fall below twenty-nine before dark I'll put about f'r Falmouth."
It was not much of a concession—if it fell so quickly he would flee in any event—but he was confident in his reading of the sea and felt it unlikely. But he missed having a sailing-master to fall back on for advice and the comfort of such wisdom at his side. He was on his own and would have to stand by his decisions.
Just as dusk was closing in, the first line-squalls arrived. As he suspected, they were short-lived but with disconcerting venom, short periods of screaming and droning in the rigging, and bucking in the canvas. Kydd knew that, behind, a series of black squalls was marching in from windward with an abrupt drop in temperature and the wind veering sharply in their wake.
He was determined to press on. The Witch of Sarnia was well found, nearly new, and her gear could be trusted. It would be uncomfortable and daunting to some but they would do it. But once deep into the ocean, what if a real Atlantic howler coming out of the unknown fell upon them?
A black squall, heavy with stinging rain, blustered over them; the keening winds that followed brought a shock of raw cold as they bullied at watch-coats and oilskins. Kydd sent below those he could, but realised this might not have been a mercy to any still finding their sea-legs; in the fitful conditions the schooner was skittish and unpredictable in her movements.
The seas, however, were constant from the west, long combers, white-streaked down their backs and as powerful as bulls, coming at them ceaselessly. Kydd ticked off the seconds between cresting: if the time had increased, the swell was lengthening, a sure sign of weather to windward.
Another squall; in square rig, with these backing and veering winds, there would be heavy work in the bracing of yards and at the tacks of so many more sails, but in the Witch, with but two main sails, it was so much less.
Some time into the dark hours the wind shifted northerly and at the same time the barometer sank below twenty-nine inches. "Time t' turn an' run," Cheslyn said pugnaciously to Kydd.
"In this dark? What codshead would go a-beam in these seas without he knows what's a-comin' at him fr'm windward? We're safe as we go, an' we stay this way."
The next day dawned on a cold, grey waste of heaving, white-streaked seas and sullen cloudbanks, but no sign of the broken and racing scud of a coming storm. "It'll blow itself out," Kydd said confidently. Cheslyn merely stumped below.
There were no sun-sights possible but despite the dirty weather they seemed to be making good progress. With a whole clear ocean ahead they would pick up their position in time. For now, however, Kydd must estimate the extent of the set to leeward caused by the weather coming at them.
The constant motion was wearying, the bracing against anything solid taking its toll of muscle and strength. He sent Calloway to round up the ship's boys, then start a class of how to pass bends and hitches and the working of knots; possibly it would take their minds off the conditions.
They were now well out into the Atlantic and the weather had eased more westerly again. The underlying swell was long and languorous, which might mean anything, but the wind was back in the south-west as a strong breeze streaming in, fine sailing weather for a schooner.
Night drew in with little in the evening sky to raise concern and Kydd read his Compendium with interest before turning in. He fell asleep almost immediately; any worrying about just where in this vast desert of sea he might find prey could wait for the light of day.
At some time in the night he came suddenly to full wakefulness and lay in the dark knowing something was amiss but unable to pinpoint it. There was nothing, no sudden shouting, no change in the regular pitching and heaving of the ship. The feeling intensified, and a sense of preternatural dread stole over him. He rolled out of his bunk, threw on the grego over his nightclothes and hurried up on deck, his eyes straining into the blackness.
The watch-on-deck looked at him in astonishment. "Cap'n, sir?" said one with concern, approaching. Kydd tried to make sense of his feelings. The rollers showed white in the darkness, seething past as usual, and the overcast made reading the sky conditions difficult. But something was . . .
Then he had it. An almost indefinable continuous low roar at the edge of hearing beneath the bluster of the wind but, once detected, never fading. He froze in horror: a memory from long ago, burned into his soul burst into his consciousness—one night perilously close to the dreaded Cape Horn and . . .
He threw himself at the wheel as he had done then, knocking the helmsman aside, and spun on turns. The little schooner seemed reluctant and frantically Kydd willed it on for otherwise they had but seconds to live.
The roar became audible to the others on deck, who looked at each other in terror as Kydd shrieked, "Hold! Hold on f'r your lives!"
Then the wind died. In not much more than a breath of air Witch of Sarnia came round into the calm whisper and started canting up—the angle increased sharply and the nearness of a monstrous presence beat on Kydd's senses. "Hold!" he howled, as the schooner reared higher still and from within the vessel he could hear anonymous thuds, crashing and terrified cries.
The roaring was now overwhelming and suddenly it became a reality. The foaming peak of a rogue wave of mountainous size rolling down on them out of the night like a juggernaut, its feral presence mind-freezing.
Now all depended on whether Kydd's action had been quick enough. As the schooner's bow buried itself in the boiling white of the crest, the wind, which had been cut off by the sheer bulk of the wave, resumed with shocking force—but she was now in the eye of the gale and it blasted equally both sides of the fore and aft sails. By that one fact the Witch had been saved from being slammed sideways, to die rolling over and over broadside at the teeth of the wave.
The deluge took possession of the deck and came rushing aft; at the same time the naked, dripping bow emerged spearing skywards before the vessel fell with a sickening crunch into the back of the great wave. Then the rush of water thinned and disappeared over the side before it reached them.
They were through! But at what cost? Men boiled up from below in terrified incomprehension; above the bedlam Kydd could hear Cheslyn's roar, then saw his bear-like shape forward as he restored order with his fists.
The man handed himself aft, his heavy face streaked with wet hair, eyes red. "The barky's well shook up below, Mr Kydd," he said hoarsely. "You keep th' deck, sir, an' I'll take some hands below an' do what we can till day."
"Very well, Mr Cheslyn—an' thank ye."
There was a glimmer of a smile, then he left abruptly.
First light showed much the same bleak seascape: white-streaked waves to the horizon, advancing on them energetically, but there had been no worsening during the night. The barometer holding steady confirmed Kydd's estimate that it was but the North Atlantic exercising its age-old right to nastiness. He faced the wind: the centre would be some six points or more out there on his right hand. If he shaped away more south of west he would avoid the worst of the blow and still be on course for the Azores and their hunting ground.
With a sigh of satisfaction he retired to his cabin; they had survived remarkably well, considering, almost certainly because of their new fit of rigging. Between decks the mess was still being cleared away but nothing vital had suffered.