“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.
“Haaaands to shorten sail!”
Bowyer came up, his hair plastered to his skull and water streaming from his tarpaulin cape. He bent forward to shout to Kydd: “We’re going ter play safe ’n’ close reef topsails, then bend on the fore storm staysail — but none o’ yer tricks now, mate, it’s too chancy.”
The sea was now smoking at its crests, a continuous horizontal sleeting of fine spume covering the surface like a ground mist. The wind held real force, its sound a continuous low roar as it passed through the taut rigging, and Kydd held grimly to the fore and aft rigged lifelines.