“O’ course, it could all end for us in an hour, yer know,” said Corrie.

“How so?”

“Jus’ think, here we is, thrashin’ along with the wind shiftin’ all the time, who’s to say where we’ll be at the end of the watch in the dark?” There was no answer, so he went on, “Frenchy coast only thirty mile or so off hereabouts, ’n’ it’s sure enough iron-bound – worst part o’ the whole coast, is that. What if we gets to tack south when the wind heads us? We’ll be piled up afore we know it.”

Bowyer grunted, “Leave him be, Scrufty. You knows they keeps a proper reckonin’ on the quarterdeck. An’ we must have passed this way no more’n half a hundred times.”

“Ah, yes, but we’re talkin’ about a bit of a blow, at night, tide set ’n’ all, and a cap’n who doesn’t know his arse from his elbow about shiphandlin’.

“Don’t forget, we gotta weather the Shambles first – ever seen ’em under a tide-fall? Nasty, black, ’n’ ready to tear the heart outa a good ship afore yer knows it,” he said.

“But -” began Kydd.

“An’ by me calc’lation they’re just about here. Could be right in our course, mates, only a half a mile ahead ’n’ jus’ waitin’.”

Kydd couldn’t help it. He stuck his head above the bulwark and peered into the dark sea fret ahead, the Royal Albion’s lanthorn light long since disappeared into the thick murk. In his imagination he could see only too vividly the black rocks rearing up to smash and splinter their way into their vessel, the victorious sea close behind.

At the end of the watch they wearily slung their hammocks.

“I’d keep me gear handy if I was you, mate! Somethin’ ’appens, an’ it’s ‘Turn up the hands,’ ” came a voice from the darkness. Kydd peeled off his clothes, still damp from before, and wearily swung himself in. The ship was moving more – less of a roll, more of an uncomfortable jerky pitching which the hammock, slung fore and aft, could not easily absorb.

He drifted off to sleep, and a disjointed dream arose, troubling and frightening, of himself borne away unwilling on the back of a huge wild bull, thundering unstoppably toward a great precipice that somehow he knew lay ahead.

Waking with a start, he was confused, disoriented. Lanthorns swayed and flickered in the musty gloom, voices murmured and turned querulous; he struggled to make meaning of it all. Thumping his feet on deck, he felt the motion of the ship markedly more irregular and violent.

“Starbowlines! All the starbowlines! Out or down! Out or down, you farmer’s sons, rouse out!”

The boatswain’s mates moved about quickly, urgently. There was no time to lose. Warm and pink, Kydd stumbled into his damp clothes, then the awkward tarpaulins. He found himself losing his balance and crashing into cursing men half glimpsed in the dimness.

Still befuddled with sleep, he emerged up the main companionway to the open deck. As soon as his head topped the coaming he was into the full force of the gale, a turbulent streaming wind hammering and lashing at him, wild and fearful. In the darkness he could see by the light of the binnacle that now there were four men on the wheel, leaning into it hard, grappling, straining. Spray whipped past in spiteful blasts as he staggered in the hammering wind to the binnacle, where an unknown figure shouted in his ear, jabbing with a finger.

He was expected on the main deck, down in the waist. He turned to go back down the ladder, but something made him pause. The length of deck forward was barely visible, but there was a furious grandeur in the rise and fall of the entire length of deck, an eager and responsive coupling of the ship with the wildness of the sea. A mounting exhilaration replaced Kydd’s fear, and instead of returning down the companionway he staggered forward along the side of the deck, holding on tightly as he went. It was impossible to see out to the sea itself, but waves smashed on the ship’s bluff sides and he tasted the salt spray on his lips.

Looking up he saw that only some of the sails were still in place, each pale and taut as a board. A strident chorus of thrums and musical harping in the rigging gave a dramatic urgency to the scene. He hung on at the mainchains, reluctant to leave.

Something in him reached out – and was answered. A fierce joy touched his soul. It didn’t matter that the situation was perilous or the ship doomed. From that moment on Kydd knew in his heart that he would be a seaman. He clung to this revelation, taking the bursts of spray in his teeth and grinning madly. The bows would rise, then smash down, flinging the seas apart, shuddering and racking, then gloriously rise again.

“Tom!” Bowyer’s concerned shout and hand gripping his arm startled him. “No need – don’ wait here. Geddown to th’ waist!”

His honest concern was evident and Kydd laughed, eyes shining.

More men emerged from below, whipped and buffeted by the hard winds.

“Double reef – topsails -” shouted Bowyer.

A man grunted and swung himself up into the weather rigging.

“Go down – reefing tackle, forebrace bitts!”

Others pushed past and mounted the ratlines.

“Go -” Bowyer shoved at Kydd impatiently.

Kydd stood and watched as Bowyer pulled himself into the rigging. Hanging there for a moment, Bowyer shouted something, then looked up and began the dangerous climb, the wind streaming his gear out horizontally.

It was madness – but without hesitating Kydd grasped the shrouds, swung himself up and followed.

In a way the darkness isolated him from the fearsome dangers. The wind tore at him, pummeled and shook him, but in his exalted state he was invulnerable. He looked up and saw Bowyer reach the futtock shrouds, then disappear into the main top.

Downward the deck was vanishing into murk. There was just Elkins, who gestured and shouted up at him.

Upward Kydd climbed, gripping the slick black rope firmly. At the futtock shrouds he hesitated – through the despised lubber’s hole close to the mast, or hang upside down to get round and onto the main top?

There was no choice for a seaman. For the first time, he worked his way upside down to the edge of the main top. His head and shoulders rose above it, but then he discovered that he didn’t know how to get the rest of the way.

The men were gathered in the darkness of the top, waiting for the yard to be laid so they would not be reefing a full drawing sail. Suddenly one caught sight of Kydd, whose face loomed pale against the outer darkness.

“Christ in heaven – it’s a ghost!” he screamed.

The others jerked round.

“Tom! What are you doing, mate?” Bowyer leaned over and hoisted him over bodily. He clung to Kydd as though he would tumble away.

A large shadow against the pallid sail resolved itself into the captain of the top pushing across. He stood for a moment clutching at a downhaul, looking into Kydd’s face. Bewilderment was succeeded by distrust as he tried to make sense of the intruder. The wind slammed at him and his open seaman’s face was puzzled; then his expression changed to acceptance and finally he bawled, “You’ll do!”

Kydd turned to Bowyer, who pushed the lee tricing line into his hands, himself taking the weather. Their eyes met – and Bowyer nodded slowly, a deep smile spreading over his whole face.

In the relative shelter on the main deck below the boats, the watch resumed.

“See yer mate is a regular foul weather jack, then, Joe,” said one.

Bowyer grunted casually. “Yair – expect to see him out on the yardarm soon, mate.”

A vicious squall bullied and blustered at the ship for long minutes; Duke William heeled and staggered, then recovered.

“Needs to learn a bit more about th’ sea afore he c’n call hisself a sailorman,” an older voice continued.

“Ah, leave him be, Nunky.”

“No, what I means is, that which you doesn’t hear about unless someone gives yer the griff. Ye know what I mean.”