Lying flat, they peered over the after side of the top down to where the remaining throat-halliard block swung crazily. Hooking his feet where he could, Kydd reached down for the block. At first it avoided him, painfully trapping his fingers against the mast. One-handed, he managed to seize it and manhandle it over to one side against its strop – and Poulden got the rope through in a single try.
Kydd held him again as he drew the rope through the big sheave with both hands until its hanging weight told – and they were done.
By the time they were back on the deck the makeshift driver was jerking up and on the other masts sail was being shown to the wind. To his immense relief Kydd saw that it was working.
Noticeably steadying under the high canvas, L’Aurore got under way again, slow but very sure.
The centre was so near now, rearing up in appalling dark majesty as if to fall on its prey – but they were winning through. As they crossed the hurricane’s track it was now necessary to bring the wind by degrees on to the quarter to break out of the deathly grip of the revolving storm, by taking advantage of the rotation that was now thrusting towards the rear.
Point by point they edged outwards, the wind, which before was coming in from astern, now off the starboard bow. Then, as they won more sea-room, it was abeam until finally it was on the quarter and they were on their way out of the maelstrom.
Against all the odds they had won, but they were not yet out of danger. Their jury-rig driver sail had saved them but it would be useless in the vital manoeuvres of wearing and tacking about, and therefore they could take up on any course – so long as it was on the starboard tack. It was imperative to find somewhere to come to rest and repair.
And providentially they did, but not in the way Kydd would have wished. Some two hours later, with visibility in the still violent conditions down to a mile or two, across their path appeared the loom of an island.
Gradually it extended right across their field of vision, a dark, wooded land that seemed to hold such menace. It was downwind from them, therefore a lee shore. And without the ability to stay about on to the other tack to get around its unknown length, there was only one thing to do.
‘Stand by to anchor – both bowers!’ he roared. ‘And the last five fathoms with keckling,’ he added, with feeling. It had been many years ago but he would remember always the terrible effect of razor-sharp coral on anchor cable.
The men worked with furious intensity for they knew only too well that if their anchors were not ready for letting go by the time they came up with the land they would most surely drive to destruction on the lee shore. Heavy cable, many fathoms of it, had to be brought up from the cable tiers in the lowest part of the ship, hauled along the deck and finally bent on to the anchors on the outside of the bow. Back-breaking work, but with time slipping by, no relief could be had.
Under just enough sail to steady her, the sore-tested frigate closed with the island, which continued to stretch across the horizon. But which island was it? To the west of Jamaica where, without a doubt, they had been blown, there were none in the half-a-thousand miles right to the Yucatán peninsula – except the Caymans. Kydd racked his tired brain, trying to remember how they lay on the chart, then said, ‘Compliments to Mr Buckle and ask him to step aft.’
Looking the worse for weather, his third lieutenant presented himself.
‘Can you tell me the name of this island?’
‘Why, yes, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘That’s Cayman Brac. You see the long bluff—’
In the wind’s bluster Kydd had to lean forward to catch the words.
‘Yes. Is that all?’
‘There’s two Caymans here, three, four miles apart. Not much in ’em, a handful o’ settler families.’
‘I thought they had quite a few – Georgetown, is it?’
‘Ah, no, sir. You’re thinking on Grand Cayman.’
So, a third island – with a dockyard for repairs? ‘How far is that?’
‘Oh, seventy, eighty miles.’
Out of the question – and time was getting short. ‘We’re to anchor here while we repair. Is there anywhere in sight you recommend?’
Buckle gave it thought. ‘There is, more over to the north. As I remember there’s a small landing place.’
‘A settlement?’
‘Not really, sir. Just a fort on the heights above.’
‘Well done, Mr Buckle! It couldn’t be better.’ That had dealt in one with his greatest anxiety: that an enemy might chance upon them while they were helpless at anchor. They’d safely moor under the watchful guns of the fort.
While the lieutenant conned them in, Kydd scanned the shore. The coast was relatively steep and a tiny plain fringed the shoreline all along the north. Close in, the island was beautiful – but would be L’Aurore’s grave if the anchors gave and she blew ashore in the still seething gale. At the right time both bower anchors were let go, the frigate continuing in to the full scope of the cable and then, under their restraint, was swung around to ride it out, facing into the wind and out to sea. It was masterly timing and a feat of seamanship that could only have come from a matchless ship’s company.