Now it was their turn. Stirk stepped back to the full length of the lanyard and waited for the order, a peculiar grin playing on his lips.
“Number-three gun – fire!”
A series of images was split by violence – the stabbing tongue of fire at the muzzle instantly replaced by acrid gunsmoke, the maddened plunge of the great cannon past Kydd to the rear, the frantic whipping of the side tackle until the gun came up to its breeching with a bass twang, the artistic arching of Stirk’s body to allow the cannon to charge past as if he were in a bullring.
And then it was over.
CHAPTER 5
As Kydd came on watch in the afternoon, it was clear that the weather was on the change. The wind had backed from a previously favorable light northerly, and was now more in the west – and strengthening. It moved forward of the beam and the old battleship had to thrash along close to the wind instead of a comfortable full and bye. Her bluff bow met the increasingly steep but still relatively short waves of the Channel head on in a series of smashes that sent cold spray sheeting into the air, then stinging straight aft. Overhead, the lowering cloudbase had turned into a dull, racing overcast. Combers started to appear, vivid white in the unrelieved green-gray.
By three bells the wind had increased and it became necessary to shorten sail. In came the topgallants and the main and mizzen topgallant staysails; to balance this the small jib was set. Kydd found it increasingly unpleasant. In weather that on land would have people reaching for thick coats and scurrying thankfully for shelter he found himself standing waiting on the upper deck as each sail maneuver called for more hauling, then more inactivity. His suffering increased when drifts of light rain bore down in curtains of misty drizzle. The rain suddenly got harder, then stopped, leaving him shivering in the keen wind.
The others on watch did not offer sympathy – to them it was an inevitable part of being a sailor, to be endured quietly and with resignation. Some pulled on foul weather gear – shapeless woolen monmouth caps and lengths of tarred canvas that hung down like aprons, mainly used by those going aloft. Luckier ones had a grego, a rough, thick coat, and over it a layered tarpaulin surcoat.
Kydd had none of these. His short jacket over the waistcoat had soon become sodden and his trousers kept up a steady stream of water into his purser’s-issue light black shoes. Cold crept remorselessly inwards to his vitals.
It seemed an age before the watch was over and Kydd was able to make his way down to the mess. The warm fetor of the gundeck, its buzz of talk, was welcoming. Supper was beginning, and the grog monkey swam dark with rum.
Kydd sat in his wet gear, letting the rum and the surrounding fug do their work.
Bowyer stripped off his old tarpaulin overcoat, but underneath he seemed just as damp as Kydd. “Grievous wet, Joe,” Kydd said.
“Well, if you takes it ter heart every wet shirt yer gets, why, yer’ll fret yourself into a stew. O’ course, if you has yer sealskin warmers – wear ’em under the waistcoat yer does – but I guess you’ll want tarpauling gear o’ sorts. Have to see ol’ Nipcheese about that.”
He seemed to find the grog as acceptable as Kydd. Draining his tankard regretfully, he said, “I’ll see yer right on that, mate, don’t you worry. Can’t be havin’ you die o’ cold before we makes a topman of ye, now, can we?”
Kydd looked at Bowyer, in his faded seaman’s rig, and felt a surge of warmth toward the man. He gulped at his grog, sighed and smiled, looking around at his new friends, then rested his eyes on the stout side of the ship. As usual condensation was running over age-blackened timber, but strangely, it slowly transformed, from a harsh confining prison wall into a sturdy barrier protecting him against the unknown vastness of the ocean outside.
Suddenly the ship gave a bump out of sequence, followed by a pitch of considerable vertical distance. The sudden movement caught Kydd unawares, and his grog spilled down his front.
“Gets a mort worse afore it gets better,” Howell said, watching Kydd over his pot.
Doud ignored him. “What’s the chance of a real blow, Sam?” he asked Claggett.
“Depends on what you calls a real blow.” Claggett stared moodily into the distance. “We’ll have Portland comin’ abeam b’ six bells. If it doesn’t back even more to th’ west we can do it on this board, if that’s what yer mean.” Doud waited patiently. “But if we don’t make our westin’ soon, why, then we’ll be hook down ridin’ it out in Torbay or somewheres. You know how it’ll be, Ned.”
Kydd broke in. “What about the Frogs?”
They looked at him with surprise. “Why, the buggers can’t move with this westerly,” said Whaley. “Bailed up in harbor, they be, can’t sail against a foul wind, see.”
A deeper lurch came. Kydd could swear he felt the unseen wave pass all the way down the ship, the bows first rising to it, then as the wave reached midpoint, falling off down the other side.
Bowyer grinned. “Let’s get yer foulies, then, Tom. Yer on fer the last dog-watch.”
Dusk drew in, but there was no easing in the weather. The wind by the hour swung west, strengthening as it did so, a hard, continuous blow in place of gusts and buffets. Scud raced overhead, ragged and low, and the ship labored heavily.
“There goes our run!” said Corrie, one of the watch. He pulled viciously at a line. “Couldn’t have stayed in the north for just another day, oh, no! Now we’ll be floggin’ about all over the oggin, lookin’ for a slant.”
It was clear that Duke William was unable to keep as close to the wind as the other two vessels. She sailed as near as possible but she sagged sadly away to leeward of the newer ships, the line of three becoming a gaggle.
From the main top of the Royal Albion ahead a solitary flicker of light appeared. Kydd glanced up: their own maintop lanthorn produced its fitful beam for Tiberius astern.
He gazed at the three-decker ahead, working her way through the seas in a welter of foam, rising and falling in a foreshortened bobbing, clawing at the wind. As he watched, the vessel altered her perspective, changing tack to conform to Duke William’s labored course, the line now whole again.
“That’ll please the buggers. Now nobody’s goin’ to fetch Start Point on this tack,” Corrie said. A cluster of signal flags made its way in jerks up Royal Albion’s rigging, the bunting stiff to the wind. “That’ll be night orders, ’n’ welcome to it,” he added, with a sniff. “Like as not, it’ll come on a real muzzler tonight, an’ then what’s the use o’ orders?”
The rain had stopped, but the wind steadily increased. Inside his new tarpaulins Kydd shivered, the slapping of the cape-like folds feeling awkward and uncomfortable. The odor of tarred canvas was strong and penetrating.
A bulky figure in old, rain-slick foul weather gear stumped along the deck in the gathering darkness. It was the boatswain, accompanied by his mates, going about on a last checking of gear before it was too dark to do so. He passed Kydd without recognition, then stopped and came back. “Gettin’ your sea legs, then?” he rumbled. “One thing about foul weather, soon sorts out th’ sailors from the lubbers.”
Then there was the familiar round of trimming – the tightening, easing, bracing and other motions deemed necessary by the officer on watch on assuming the deck, after which the men huddled beneath the weather bulwarks. The binnacle lamp was lit, and extra men sent to the wheel. The small group on the quarterdeck paced abjectly in the dirty weather, wet streaming from their foul weather gear. The night drew in.
Kydd pulled his tarpaulins close, imitating the others who, sitting with their backs to the bulwark, had wrapped a weird assortment of gear around them.