“Haul taut! Let go topsail sheets, topbowlines! Clew up!”
The turn grew faster, and Kydd’s quick glance aft took in the men at the wheel energetically spinning it to counteract the swing. It appeared that they were heading straight for the last three vessels in line.
“Down jib! Settle away the topsail halliards — square away there!”
The previously taut, finely trimmed sails were now baggy masses pressing against the forward sides of the mast, for as Kydd could see, they had turned directly into the wind, meaning to slow the ship in her onward course toward the anchored vessels.
Then the wind dropped, fluky and unreliable, and with reduced retarding effect on the fore part of her sails, Duke William glided on unimpeded.
Kydd looked at Bowyer beside him, who was watching the approach with rapt attention, his face hardening. Kydd felt a sudden stab of fear. “Joe — Joe, what is it?”
“Christ save us!” Bowyer blurted, staring forward. “We’re falling aboard Barfleur!” He reached for the familiar solidity of the forebrace bitts.
Kydd looked back at the quarterdeck — the wheel was hard over, but their slow way through the water did not give sufficient bite to the rudder and the bow’s reluctant swing was agonizingly too ponderous. Looking down the length of the ship, he saw that beyond their long bowsprit loomed the after end of a vessel quite as big as they, toward which they seemed to be sliding inexorably. There was frantic activity on her quarterdeck and poop, booms beginning to stick out in despairing efforts to fend off the inevitable, white faces, angry shouts carrying across the water.
The maneuver had failed in its purpose; the falling light winds blowing against the wrong side of the sails were insufficient to stop the forward momentum of the heavy battleship — a sad misjudgment. And under the eyes of the Admiral.
Kydd watched the drama deepen on the quarterdeck. Captain Caldwell had the speaking trumpet up, but no words came. He looked sideways briefly at Tyrell, who refused to catch his eye, standing square, oak-like, and with eyes in a fierce stare forward. No one moved.
It did not take much imagination to picture the result of the impact of a couple of thousand tons of out-of-control warship on another; Kydd, to his surprise, felt only a strange detached control as he awaited the outcome.
A flurry of shouts took Kydd’s attention forward again. On the fo’c’sle, someone with quick wits had taken advantage of the presence of the fo’c’slemen, the most skilled and reliable seamen in the ship, to stop the downward descent of the jib and to boom it out sideways from its usual fore and aft position. It took the wind at a slant, and as the sail jerked higher, exposing more area, it tautened and added a lateral force to that of the rudder, and the ship’s head began to move a little faster. They were now very near, close enough to make out on the decks of the other ship running figures, faces at the gunports, a lazy spiral of smoke from the galley chimney.
Beside him, Bowyer remained still, with a grave but calm expression as he watched. Kydd held his breath and braced himself.
Their bowsprit speared across the last few feet of Barfleur’s poop, snapping the ensign staff like a twig, instantly dowsing the huge flag. Her spanker boom shuddered and jerked in response to the twanging of rigging as it parted, and a loud scr-e-e-eak ended as quickly as it started.
Still swinging, the bulge of their bows narrowed the distance to her ornamented stern galleries, but Kydd saw that they had a chance — the gap was sufficient — and they were on their way past.
The elaborately carved and gilded windows of the First Rate shot by, it seemed at a bare arm’s length, Kydd catching sight through one window as they swept past of a shocked white face, without a wig.
Their momentum carried them on for several hundred yards before they brought to, and they sagged away downwind in ignominy. Now flat aback, the vessel began to gather sternway, and under the last helm order this led to the remaining sails filling once more on the original tack. In silence they went around again, wearing ship, to repeat the whole maneuver. This time they crept in, turning and coming up into the wind well separated from the nearest vessel. The anchor was let go when forward motion ceased, the gun salute banging out from forward to send clouds of acrid smoke smothering aft around Kydd.
The ship now fell to leeward until checked by the paid-out cable, leaving the vessel at anchor in her final position.
At supper liquor flowed around the mess tables and tongues loosened. “What a bloody shambles! Seen better handlin’ on the village pond.”
“Lost it again. We’ve got ourselves a right Jonah, mates.”
“Yair — he’s bin called away by Black Dick to account fer hisself ’n’ I doubts he’ll be a-pacin’ his own quarterdeck for much longer.”