It was Joyce, looking grey and old, who came up with the most promising plan.
A staysail secured at its peak to the topmast cap and reversed. At its lower end it was the clew that was affixed to the lower mast and the tack spread by a lower stunsail boom pressed for the service. A species of traveller could be contrived with two tackles at its end.
The new “driver” could be goosewinged and, with other tricks, it would see them tolerably well placed to resume headway west.
After all, Herne remarked, they were before the wind the whole way … should the weather hold.
By mid-morning the strange-looking rig was spread abroad and the sea-anchor hove in. They wallowed around and took up on their old course under small canvas.
There was no sighting of the sun, and with their erratic movements dead reckoning was chancy, but a voyage to the Thames estuary was straightforward enough, no more than lying along the line of latitude of fifty and a half once they’d won their southing.
That wasn’t Kydd’s main worry. It had to be how long he could expect men to keep up the grinding toil at the pumps. There was a day or so to safe haven but to men on the edge it was an eternity-and there was not a thing he could do about it.
At the extremity of fatigue, men walked about the decks in a trance, staring at bulkheads, dropping where they stood. Yet not a word of complaint.
The following morning it was difficult to make out anything in the racing murk to leeward but the low coast of Kent could not be far off.
Then at last the carpenter formally reported that the water flooding in had overtaken their ability to pump it out.
Tyger was done for: at some point the rate would suddenly increase as the lower ports submerged and the gallant ship would sink beneath the waves for ever. And in this filthy weather, with no ships in sight, still less land, each and every one would go to his death unseen by the world of men.
The pitiless sea had won.
It was unbearable! To have come so far …
Kydd flogged his tired brain mercilessly but in the end it always came back to the same thing. Even with men giving their all, the pumping was not enough: the callous equation was final.
Then from somewhere his mind presented a desperate idea. If the capacity of the pumps was not enough, what if the speed of their operation increased? The net flow must, of course, increase-but this was crazy thinking!
Doggedly he pursued the thought: what if he sent every man jack aboard to do a trick but this for only ten minutes at a time before spelling him, but at the same time expect a more furious rate?
His imagination visualised a long line of men waiting their turn. There were four places at the cranks along the main shaft. If each man was spelled in a staggered sequence the momentum would be kept up.
Yes-there was a chance!
In a short time he had explained it to Bray and the boatswain and left it to them to organise a means to work the ship from those coming off the pump before resuming their place in the line.
Meals? What could be held in the hand? Sleep? Snatched there and then on the deck. Respite? None!
“Form the line!” Kydd roared.
The first man stepped up ready.
It was the captain, who threw off his jacket and stood flexing his hands.
There was shuffling nearby-Bray, pushing aside Bowden. Behind him was Brice-the first four on the cranks would be the ship’s officers.
“Take hold!”
Each grabbed a pitted iron handle and braced.
“Start!”
It was astonishingly difficult, winding up the long chain with the drag of their leather seals and Kydd’s muscles burned with the effort. Panting, he drove around the cruel bar, now heaving it up, next pushing it down, in a dizzy cycle that left no room for thought.
“Faster!” he gasped, throwing himself into it.
Reluctantly the muffled rumble of the drive chain rose in tone a little, and then more. Sparing nothing, he worked like a madman until the note rose higher still. It was furious labour and a mesmerising rhythm took hold.
Standing by with a watch in his hands, the quartermaster called, “Spell one!”
It didn’t register in the flailing grind and Kydd felt a tap on his shoulder.
“Sir.” It was the boatswain demanding he yield his place.
Kydd fell back exhausted, tripping over and ending on his knees.
Half a dozen hands helped him up but his eyes were only for the pump.
Herne had caught the rhythm quickly and was bulling the crank around, now whirling at an astonishing speed.
Staying to catch the next handover, he prayed it was working. If anything was going to deliver them, this was it.
A wave of exhaustion swept over him in a dizzying flood. Just as he had so long ago, as a common foremast jack, he sought the ship’s side and sat down, leaning against it. Folding his arms he put his head on his knees and let go of consciousness.
The morning brought two desperately desired things. The water had not only been halted but was down a full eight inches-and land was sighted, the low mudflats of Essex. They were just to the north of the Thames, with small miles to go. It was impossible, incredible, but release was only hours away.
But they were not home yet. Ahead were the notorious sandbars of the estuary, said to be the worst a seaman could face. Low in the water, Tyger would touch at the slightest mis-navigation and she could leave her bones within sight of her rest.
In the hard easterly there was little shipping and the pilot cutter came streaming out promptly, the grizzled old pilot mounting the side in astonishment.
“As you’re Tyger an’ all?” he said breathlessly.
“It is,” Kydd said wearily. “You’ll get your fee, never fear. Now I’ll have you know we’re well down on our marks, four feet or more, take mind of this, sir.”
“Tyger, begob!” He snatched off his sou’wester and looked at Kydd in open admiration. “An’ the country’s in a rare moil t’ hear of your great fight. And to think I’m here to-”
“Sir. We have to make Sheerness with the greatest urgency. Do you-”
“So you shall, sir! You’re grievous mauled an’ will make port or I’m to swing for it!”
“One thing.”
“Anything you wants, sir!”
“Your cutter. Do send it into Sheerness dockyard directly and I want a hundred fresh men ready for me the soonest. Compree?”
Tyger crept ahead in the white slashed seas, the familiar bleak outlines of Sheppey firming with the dark silhouettes of the ships of the Nore in a long cluster to larboard.
What did he mean, the whole country alive with news of their engagement? It would have to be Admiral Russell sending an immediate dispatch by fast packet, which, with their slow progress, had given time for the news to spread.
A desolate curtain of rain enveloped them and drove down on the distant cliffs and marshes, obscuring the shoreline. When it lifted it revealed an astonishing sight. From Garrison Point, the fort, all along the foreshore there were people, hundreds, a thousand. Scorning the rain and winds and, without question, there to welcome them home!
The pilot cutter must have brought the exciting news and the whole town had turned out.
A firework soared up, then several. From the fort came the crump of guns-no naval salutes would greet a mere frigate. Boats could be seen putting off and by the time they’d rounded the point to reach shelter they were surrounded by yelling well-wishers, soaked to the skin.
Tyger came to and picked up moorings even as dockyard boats were putting out, filled with men.
“Get those men to work this instant!” Kydd bawled. It would be a sorry end after all that had passed to sink at their moorings.
He turned to the master shipwright, who stood respectfully but held up his hand. “I’ve orders that give you the highest priority for a docking, sir. The master attendant is turning out Hibernia as we speak.”