He pulled on wool: long undergarments, loose pullovers. Anything to keep out the sapping cold of the streaming wind.
This was no longer an exhilarating contest with Neptune, but something sinister. The first feelings of anxiety stole over Kydd – there was a point in every storm when the elements turned from hard boisterousness to malevolence, a sign that mankind was an interloper in something bigger than himself, where lives counted for nothing.
Back on deck Kydd had no need to check the compass to see that the wind had veered further: the angle of the treble-reefed topsails was now much sharper. If it continued much past south they stood to be headed, prevented from making for Nova Scotia to the west, no more than two days away.
Kydd could just make out a few words as he approached Houghton, who was talking to the master under the half-deck near the wheel: ‘ . . . or lie to, sir.’ Hambly pointed out over the foam-streaked seas. Beneath the wind-scoured waves a swell, long and massive, was surging up. And it came from the south-west, a portent of the great storm that had sent it.
Kydd glanced at the merchantman. They were but two days from port. So near, yet – Houghton had no authority over her and, indeed, if he had it was difficult to see how any meaningful signal could be made.
‘The monster crosses our way, sir, and I’m not sanguine of th’ chances of a wounded ship in a real North Atlantic storm,’ continued the master.
‘We stay with Lord Woolmer. That must be our duty,’ Houghton said abruptly.
Within the hour Woolmer began to turn – away from the wind.
‘She’s scudding!’ said Houghton.
‘No, sir, I do believe she wears.’ The ship continued round, slowly and uncomfortably, until she had come up on the opposite, starboard tack where she held a-try about four points from the wind.
‘I thought so!’ Hambly said, against the bluster of the wind at the edges of the half-deck. ‘He’s seen enough of the western ocean t’ know that if there’s a turn f’r the worse, the shift will come out of somewheres close to th’ north, and wants to get his staying about over with now.’ It also meant that Woolmer had given up hope of making it through to Halifax and now lay to under storm canvas, going very slowly ahead, waiting out the storm. Kydd’s heart went out to the passengers, who must be near to despair: storms could last weeks.
Tenacious was set to edging round to conform, and together the two vessels endured. By midday the seas had worsened and the wind’s sullen moan had keened to a higher pitch, a dismal drone with whistling overtones. The swell had increased and the depth between each crest became a dismaying plunge and rise.
Kydd had experienced Caribbean hurricanes, but this was of a different quality: the cold at its heart gave it a unique dark malice. Like the other officers, Kydd stayed on deck. At noon they took stale bread and cold tongue, biscuit and anchovies, then resumed their vigil.
Suddenly, a mass of panic-stricken men burst up from the after hatchway, spilling on to the deck, falling over themselves to be out. A chill stabbed at Kydd. A seaman shouted hoarsely, ‘Gotta loose gun!’
Bryant dropped his food and raced for the hatchway, shouting to Kydd, ‘A dozen micks – now!’
Because of the weather the hammocks had all been stowed below in the lowest deck. Kydd stood in the hatchway, snatching a dozen men to a halt. ‘Down t’ the orlop – we’ll go under.’ He plunged recklessly down the hatchway, praying they would follow. As he passed the level of the gun-deck he had a brief glimpse of a squat black creature crouching for the kill. He hurried on.
Finally in the orlop he paused to allow his eyes to adjust; then he set the men to work. In the wildly heaving gloom hammocks were passed up while Kydd cautiously entered the deserted gun-deck. The gun stood out brazenly from the ship’s side. The muzzle lashing had pulled its ringbolt from rotten wood and some weighty motion of the ship had subsequently caused the iron forging of the breeching tackle on one side to give way. The big cannon had swung out and, held by a few stranded ropes, was all but free.
Bryant stood to one side with a crew of seamen armed with handspikes. Kydd signalled to the first men to come up.
‘Stand your ground!’ the first lieutenant roared, at the men hesitating at his back. The whites of their eyes showed as they fearfully hefted their handspikes and waited for the order. When Kydd’s men had temporarily stopped the beast with hammocks thrown in its path, Bryant’s would hurl themselves on it with the handspikes in an attempt to overturn it.
Tenacious rose to a wave and fell to starboard. It was all that was needed; the remaining ropes parted with a dull twang and the twenty-four-pounder trundled across the deck, accelerating as it went. The men threw themselves back at the sight of the unrestrained rampage while the cannon hurtled at the opposite side. Then the deck heaved the other way. The gun slowed and stopped, trickling back and forth in a grotesque parody of a bull-fight as the ship hesitated at the top of a roll. The next headlong charge might be the last.