“’Less we can get the old barky to lift up her skirts ’n’ run, we’re goin’ to lose ’em,” the captain of the top said bitterly. He looked over the flat seas to their fellow ships-of-the-line in staggered line abeam. Tiberius led Royal Albion by a short head, and both were significantly ahead of Duke William.
“Know what that is?” the man said sharply to Kydd, without turning his head. “That there’s gun money ’n’ head money ’n’ mebbe even a mort o’ prize money, that is. One chance we get in this bucket to lay ’ands on an honest guinea or two and we meets wi’ a dead calm.”
Others in the top rumbled their agreement.
A weather stuns’l was not a success, however, backwinding the main topsail, and it was struck. Swearing, they toiled at the sail, which had managed to wrap itself around the topmast stay when the halliards were let go.
As the day wore on, it became apparent that the enemy were equally affected by the lazy weather, straggling along in a slow, ragged line. At two, the wind failed altogether, and the ship hung lifeless in the water, sails barely stirring. She lost way and after ghosting along for a space she simply did not answer her helm and drifted, the slight swell causing an aimless clack of blocks aloft.
“Awaaaay all boats!”
Tumbling into the cutter, Kydd made room on the thwart for Renzi. The rowers would go double-banked in this attempt to tow Duke William into action, and together with the larger pinnace and launch they would do their utmost to close with the enemy. Even the Captain’s barge took a line from the fo’c’sle.
It was cruel, backbreaking work: the hard thwart and unyielding oar, the burning pain in the back and arms, the hands turning into claws. With the inertia of two thousand tons their oars threshed the water uselessly while the boat remained dead in the water.
It took all of ten minutes of toil at the oars by hundreds of men to see the tiniest move through the water of the great battleship. They were now half a mile behind Royal Albion, who also had all her boats out.
“Pull, you scurvy lubbers!” The tiny midshipman’s piping voice was almost comical as he tried to emulate the bull-roaring of Tewsley in the launch.
Although it was not strong, the sunlight glittered on the unbroken sea surface and reflected up into their faces. Kydd was grateful for his hat, but felt his face redden from the glare. They pulled on in silence, a steady long pull, leaning well back to get the straightest line from chest to feet against the stretchers athwartships.
A series of disjointed thuds sounded distantly, then cannonballs skipped and splashed audibly around them. Kydd glanced about him as he pulled, and was relieved to see that the shots were well scattered. One of the enemy ships was nearly hidden by clouds of slow-moving gunsmoke.
Nevertheless it was unnerving. The enemy had their broadside facing them while their own guns would not bear so far forward. They pulled on. More thuds, more balls. A long space, and then an avalanche of crumps. This time the sound was appreciably nearer and the balls skipped and smashed with venom among them. Some came between the boats and two struck the ship with a peculiar sound like a blunt axe smashing into rotten wood.
“Eyes in the boat!” piped the little midshipman, as some men missed their stroke looking over their shoulder.
There was a fierce muttering. It was one thing to be under fire with their own cannon roaring defiance from their wooden ramparts and another to be helpless in the open with no means of reply.
A catspaw of wind ruffled the water and subsided. Another came and went. Anxious faces looked toward the fo’c’sle but nothing changed.
A double rush of thumps and a storm of shot broke over them. One ball plowed into the bow of the pinnace and opened it like a banana, instantly cutting off the shrieks by plunging every occupant into the sea. Without waiting to be told, lines were slipped and the boats returned, the launch remaining to pick up survivors.
But the wind seemed to have returned. Sails were stirring, flapping desultorily, the huge battle ensign lifting momentarily and falling.
So weary were they that it was impossible to climb the Jacob’s ladder over the stern and they were waved around to the entry port. Aching and sore, they mounted the side steps and made their way back to their battle stations.
On the lower gundeck the gun crews waited. Kydd sat against the gun carriage, head in his hands, exhausted.
“Denison, you ’n’ Kydd change,” Stirk said, giving Kydd a break from his arduous gun-tackle duty. Kydd nodded his gratitude. Cullen brought the round shot to the gun with Denison.
It was hot and fetid, even with the gunports open, but a whisper of a breeze now wafted cool sea air over them. Kydd was stripped to the waist, a red bandanna around his head. He closed his eyes and let the talk eddy around him.