Tenacious(3)

He turned on his heel and headed back, trying to work out how to resolve the problem. The usual remedy was to move provisions or guns aft, but the ship was fully stored and this would be awkward and dangerous. Also, with but a single frigate nearly out of sight ahead, it would be prudent to leave the guns where they were.

He reached the quarterdeck and Houghton glanced at him curiously. Kydd did not catch his eye as he ordered the mate-of-the-watch, ‘Hands to set sail!’ Stuns’ls had been struck earlier in the day and the man looked surprised. He hesitated, then hailed the boatswain.

‘Mr Pearce,’ Kydd told him, ‘as we’re lasking along, wind’s fr’m the quarter, I mean t’ take in the fore-topmast stays’l and then we’ll set the large jib.’ The boatswain’s eyebrows rose, but after only the briefest look in the captain’s direction, he drew out his silver call.

Kydd knew it was not a popular order among the men. The large jib would have to be roused out from below and heaved up on deck, the long sausage of canvas needing thirty men at least to grapple with it. And the handing of the fore-topmast staysail, a fore-and-aft sail leading down from aloft, was hard, wet and dangerous, followed by the awkward job of hanking the large jib.

Houghton had stopped pacing and was watching Kydd closely. The master emerged from the cabin spaces to stand with him and the first lieutenant, but Kydd kept his eyes forward as the boatswain set the men about their tasks.

The fo’c’slemen lowered the fore-topmast staysail, the men out on the bowsprit using both hands to fist the unruly canvas as it came down the stay. This was a job for the most experienced seamen in the ship: balancing on a thin footrope, they bellied up to the fat spar and brought in the sail, forming a skin and stuffing in the bulk before passing gaskets round it. All the while the bowsprit reared and fell in the lively seas.

Kydd stayed on the quarterdeck, looking forward and seeing occasional bursts of spray from the bow shoot up from beneath, soaking men and canvas. He felt for them.

At last the jib was bent on and began jerking up, flapping and banging, and the men made their way back inboard. Sheets were tended and the action was complete.

‘Mr Kydd, what was your purpose in setting the large jib?’ Houghton called.

Kydd crossed the deck and touched his hat. ‘The ship gripes, sir. I—’

‘Surely you would therefore attend to the trim?’

‘Sir, we’re fully stored, difficult t’ work below,’ he began, recalling his experiences as a quartermaster’s mate and the dangers lurking in a dark hold when the ship was working in a seaway. ‘This way we c’n cure the griping an’ get an edge of speed.’

Houghton frowned and looked at the master, who nodded. ‘Ah, I believe Mr Kydd means t’ lift the bows – you’ll know the heads’ls are lifting sails, an’ at this point o’ sailing the large jib will do more of a job in this than our stays’l.’

‘And the speed?’ Houghton wanted to know.

But Kydd could already sense the effects: the hesitation was gone and it felt much like a subtle lengthening of stride. He turned to the mate-of-the-watch. ‘A cast o’ the log, if y’ please.’

It was only half a knot more, but this was the same as subtracting from their voyage the best part of a hundred miles for every week at sea.

Kydd held back a grin. ‘And if it comes on t’ blow, we let fly, sir.’

Houghton gave a curt acknowledgement.

‘Does seem t’ me she’s a sea-kindly ship, if y’ know what I mean, sir,’ Kydd dared.

The wardroom was a quite different place from what it had been a day or so before: officers sat at table for dinner together in the usual way, but now they were in sea-faded, comfortable uniform and there was always one absent on watch. And instead of the stillness of harbour repose, there was the soaring, swooping movement of deep ocean that had everyone finding their sea-legs once more.

Fiddles had been fitted round the table – taut cords at the edge to prevent plates tumbling into laps; glasses were never poured more than half full and wetted cloths prevented bottles sliding – all familiar accompaniments to sea service.

The chaplain entered for dinner, passing along hand by hand to steady himself. ‘Do take a sup of wine,’ Kydd said solicitously.

‘Thank you, perhaps later,’ Peake murmured, distracted. He reached for the bread-barge, which still contained portions of loaves – soon they would be replaced with hard tack – and selected a crust. ‘I confess I was ever a martyr to the ocean’s billows,’ he said faintly.

Kydd remembered the times when he had been deprived of Renzi’s company while Peake and he had been happily disputing logic, and could not resist saying, ‘Then is not y’r philosophy comfort enough? Nicholas, conjure some words as will let us see th’ right of it.’