The watch gathered forward-the fo’c’sle was a frightening place to be. Ahead, the bowsprit out to the flying jibboom rose skywards as though to spear the racing dark clouds before swooping down to smash into the waves ahead in a violent paroxysm of white. It stayed under for long seconds before rising, streaming water. At times a rampaging comber would thump violently against the weather bow, sending solid water sheeting over the little group, making Kydd gasp afterward at the cruel cold of the wind blasting against his sodden clothing.
Kydd felt a hand on his arm. It was Corrie. “Now yer can see why they calls it the widder-maker,” he yelled, pointing at the bowsprit. “Some cove’s gotta get out there jus’ because they left it late.”
“Stir yerself, Corrie!” Bowyer growled. “Yer got work to do.”
With lifelines around their waists paid out slowly, the two, with three others, timed their move out onto the gangboard gratings of the bowsprit to the horse, a single footrope dangling in space under the big spar. The bows plunged — the men dropped to the bowsprit and clung. Kydd watched dismayed as white seas closed viciously over them. The onrushing wave then exploded against the beakhead in sheets of spray, which fell heavily on him. By the time he had cleared his eyes the bowsprit was emerging with dark dripping figures still clinging.
In short, hasty jerks the fore topmast staysail came down and was gathered in. Bowyer climbed to the top of the broad spar, his arm around the forestay, fisting the wildly flogging staysail. His eyes, however, did not miss the next wave, which seethed in, leaving his head and shoulders clear. When the wave receded Kydd saw that Bowyer’s tarpaulins had been stripped off, hanging loose. He kicked them away and continued in his shirt. The storm staysail was an easier matter. The long cylinder of canvas was passed out and bent on the forestay with beckets, Bowyer’s nimble fingers quickly passing the toggles as the canvas mounted the stay.It was the sharpest sea lesson that Kydd had received yet: only skill, bravery and the ignoring of personal discomfort would give a man any kind of chance in these conditions. Any less and he would be eliminated.
“See that? Lightnin’! We’re in for it now, mates!” Corrie was staring out at the Stygian cloud mass to the southwest. Another soundless flash low down on the horizon to leeward, but no thunder, any distant sound impossible to hear against the storm noise.
“No, it ain’t, that’s gunflash, that is,” Doud said.
“Don’t talk such flam. Who’d be fightin’ a war in this?” Corrie countered.
Bowyer frowned. “Them’s distress guns!”
As if in confirmation, Duke William eased around and bore away toward. The alteration, of course, had the waves coming in at an awkward angle astern and her movement changed into a nasty cross motion, which soon had some of the hands looking thoughtful.
Low in the water, the merchant ship was in a sorry way. She was a small brig with an old-fashioned look about her. Her foremast had snapped off some eight feet clear of the deck and the entire rigging structure forward was snarled into hopeless ruin on her foredeck. All she could do was scud before the wind under bare poles. A few figures could be made out on her low poop, waving vigorously.
“Guess we must seem as some sort o’ miracle,” Kydd said to Bowyer. They were sheltering in the half deck, behind the men at the wheel. He pictured Duke William, bluff and grand, appearing out of the wildness and making straight for them.
Bowyer stared pensively over and did not reply.
The officer of the watch had his telescope trained on the unfortunate vessel and clicked his tongue. “She’s not going to last for much longer unless they can get the water out of her,” he said.
“Poor beggars at the pumps are prob’ly beat — or somethin’ else,” Bowyer said cryptically.
“Mr. Warren!” The Captain’s voice came suddenly from behind them. “What’s the situation?” The watch politely made room for him under the half deck overhang.
“Merchant brig, sir. Lost her foremast, seems to be taking in water. Can’t see more than a few men on deck, could be shorthanded.” He raised his telescope again. “Can’t see any colors, but she’s probably ours.”
“Very well. Heave to, if you please, Mr. Warren. Least we can do is make a lee for them.” Caldwell’s face was set and pitying.
“Then?”
“No, Mr. Warren, no boat can swim in this.” He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry. We can do nothing more — they must take their chances.”
Kydd could hardly believe his ears. There were human beings, sailors, just a short distance away and they could do nothing?