“No, I don’t, Nunky, what do you mean?”
“Ye’ll not hear this from any else.” The fierce hiss of seas along the hull nearly drowned the words. “’Twas a long time ago, lads, ’n’ we needed water bad. Shipped in Seaflower we was, on a v’yage to the Spice Islands, and we landed a party ashore to look fer water. Now, I wuz a green hand, thought I knew it all, so when I climbs over this ’ere sand hill, all I thinks about is water. That’s when I sees ’em! Seven of ’em! Each one enough to set a sailor’s heart afire. Right saucy ladies they wuz. So I sets meself down in the rushes to watch. Then I notices they’s passing around this ointment, see, putting it on ’emselves. So I creeps nearer an’ nearer, and when they wasn’t looking dips me finger into the jar.”
A violent clatter from aloft drew attention until the helmsmen let the bows fall away, and the sail filled again.
“Then I rubs it in me eye and, dang me, I gets so surprised I nearly cries out! What I saw then was they were mermaids. Damn me fer a chucklehead – the ointment clears me eyes and I c’n see ’em plain as day. So I creeps away again, goes back aboard ’n’ tries to forget. Then we makes Port Anjer an’ we steps ashore like. An’ what do you think I sees there?”
“What did you see, Nunky?”
“With me eye treated with th’ ointment, I sees that the doxies walkin’ up and down the street, bold as brass, are really mermaids in their steppin’-ashore disguise. Yessir! Means that any trug you takes on a cruise could be a mermaid – and they’ll suck yer soul out, as any sailor knows!” He eased his position.
The younger voice spoke again. “Can yer see ’em now, Nunky? I mean, has yer got the power still?”
“Well, now, this is where I makes me mistake, being young an’ all. See, I ends up half cut on this arrack, see, and I thinks as ’ow I’d like to make me respects to the girls. We gets down on the job ’n’ while she unrigs, with me eye I sees as ’ow she’s a mermaid! ‘Be damned,’ I says. ‘Ye’re a mermaid, we’ll not swive!’ She gets taken right aback, I’m tellin’ yer. But then she gets all cunning like, ’n’ asks me how I knows. ‘With this eye I has, so none o’ yer tricks!’ I says. But mates, she flew at me like a harpy ’n’ with her long nails she douses me glim in one!” He sniffed disconsolately. “When I comes to, there I see this doxy – an’ she’s jus’ yer usual fusty luggs a-grinnin’ at me! And that’s as ’ow you’ll notice I’ve got no starb’d peeper to this day!”
The morning came with no relief to the foul weather; the sea was an expanse of seething waves, each with a feather of spume on the crest whipped away by the onrushing blast of the gale. It saw Duke William diving, shuddering, her bowsprit burying in the white seas ahead before emerging in a broad smash of spray.
Kydd thrilled to the spectacle. He instinctively knew that snugged down under treble-reefed topsails the old battleship was in no real danger, and he set his teeth to the gale. Movement along the deck was hard work. He staggered forward, the deck diving down and down while he tottered on his toes as light as a child, before the irresistible heave up that made him as weighty as a hippo with legs that felt like lead. The spray rattled aboard constantly, striking his tarpaulins like hail and reddening his cheeks, the wind never ceasing its forceful bluster. Encrusted salt made his eyes sting. It was with guilty relief that he went below at midday for the rum issue.
Even in the close coziness of the lower gundeck there was a swash of water, most coming through the hawse bucklers, which were taking the underwater pressure of the bows when they plunged heavily beneath the waves. Lanthorns swung together, sending shadows swaying over the packed messdeck, the strained, tired men and double-breeched guns. Kydd slid into his place at the table and, bracing himself against the surging movements, let the rum spread its cheeriness through his vitals.
“Nor’-westerly like this can go on fer days,” Howell muttered, staring at the ship’s side.
Claggett glanced up. “An’ what else can you expect in Biscay of an Eastertide, Jonas?” he said.
Kydd put down his tankard and turned to Claggett. “So this is y’r storm?” He grabbed for the table edge as a roll turned into an unexpected lurch.
“Not as who would say a storm, mate,” Claggett replied. “More of what we’d call a fresh gale, is all.” He took another pull at his grog and glanced at Bowyer. “A storm is somethin’ that makes yer very ’umble, like – it’s when the hooker has ter give up goin’ ter where it wants ter go and she lies to, or scuds, only where the storm wants ter send ’er.”
Bowyer grimaced softly. “He’s right, cuffin. A real blow can be very awesome, makes yer right fearful when yer comes down to it, like.” He stared through Kydd. “Comes a time when yer knows that there’s a chance that yer might not live – sea jus’ tears at the barky like it was an animal, no mercy a-tall. That’s when yer remembers yer mother an’ yer sins.”
Claggett nodded slowly. “It’s when yer finds out if yer ship is well found ’n’ you can trust yer life to ’er. Or not.”
Kydd took another swallow of his rum and listened.
Bowyer stirred uncomfortably. “Fer me, I feels pertic’lar for the merchant jacks in foul weather – ship’s gen’rally small ’n’ always the crew is less’n it should be, owners being so horse-cockle mean ’n’ all. Poor bastards, they might fight fer their lives, but it’s for nothing – that size in wild weather they got no chance a-tall.”
With a crash from forward and a rumble of gear along the side, Duke William rolled before an unseen rogue wave, seawater spurting from the caulking around the lee gunports to add to the swill on deck.
Kydd was no longer a prey to seasickness. He had quickly developed a feel for the ocean’s rhythms, and he could sense the shape and timing of the seas that rolled under Duke William’s keel, learning how to move with rather than fight against the motion. And after his experiences in the hoy at the Nore he knew enough to be grateful for this. He refused to join in the cruel taunting of those seasick unfortunates in the waist, helpless in their misery.
Pinto arrived with the noon meal. In the absence of a galley fire it was poor stuff – chunks of cheese so hard it needed real effort to carve at it, even with sharp seamen’s blades. Kydd’s gorge rose when he noticed long red worms squirming at the cut, but raw hunger griped at him.
“Saw bosun at the fore shrouds lookin’ wry,” Doud said. “Chucks’ll have us rackin’ at them lee lanyards this afternoon, I guess.” He chewed hungrily at his hard tack.
Whaley gave a short laugh. “Seen the weather brace o’ the fore topsail? Bin so many times end for end it’s naught but shakin’s waitin’ to be damned!”
“An’ the bowsprit gammonin’,” Doud added. “Bobstay’s loose, ’n’ in this blow the spar’s workin’ somethin’ cruel.”
Howell’s lips curled in a sneer. “Goes ter show, barky is rotten in the riggin’ and the deadwork as well. Ship only keeps afloat by the maggots holdin’ hands. Be a bloody miracle if we ever makes port agen, I says.”
Pumping began at three bells, and Kydd was sent to the chain pump in the second half-hour spell. The massive crank, worked by twenty men, could send the endless chain clattering around vigorously – two tons of water an hour could clear the pump well in a watch.
It was hard work; in the confined space of the lower deck the rotating crank handle needed a wide range of movement, the weight of the column of bilge water and the resistance of dozens of leather disks a deadweight to be heaved against in a tedious round of movement. The clanking, rattling boredom went on and on, Kydd’s back taking the worst of the strain, and it was an intense relief to hear the “Spell-oh!” at the end of his trick. He stretched and stumped up the ladders to rejoin his watch, sure that the blast of wind that met him as he emerged on deck was wilder than before.