extremity of fear and exhaustion, racked by panic and sea-sickness.
Kydd
felt a warmth of sympathy. They were better off where they were, out of sight
of the heart-chilling insanity of the storm. He would go to them and try to say
something encouraging, the least he could do. Holding on to anything to hand,
Kydd made his way forward in the noisome obscurity.
But
then his senses slammed in. The ponderous wrench at the beginning of the scend
had disappeared, and a comparatively smooth rise completed the movement. There
could only be one interpretation. With a constriction of his stomach Kydd knew
that an empty cable was running now from the hawse. As if in confirmation, Trajan gave a fish-like wriggle as she careered astern.
Kydd spun round. He hurried as fast as he could to make the upper deck, pulling
along hand over hand. As he got to the base of the ladderway, a combined twist
and jerk told him that Trajan had come up to her second anchor. 'Clear away th'
sheet anchor!' Kydd heard the boatswain howl into the violence, as he breasted
the coaming and came out into the turmoil.
Capple
stared fiercely ahead to the foredeck where men fought and struggled. At every
plunge they disappeared from view under an avalanche of white water. He
noticed Kydd. 'Coral bottom!' he shouted. Coral was a deadly menace: it snarled
and cut thick cables with razor-sharp edges and normally was never chosen for
an anchorage.
A
few yards forward Kydd saw Quist. He was yelling something indistinct, but
ended by stabbing a finger at Kydd, then pointing forward. Kydd grabbed the wet
hairiness of the midships life-line and hauled himself along the bucking deck
to the starboard fore-chains, joining the men at the sheet anchor.
There
was no immediate need for this last anchor they had, but they could leave
nothing to chance. Kydd drew near and was nearly knocked off his feet by the
green water sluicing aft. A cable to the sheet anchor had already been bent and
seized in storm preparations, but anchoring in coral had not been foreseen.
'Keckling
— get goin', Kydd,' the boatswain yelled. A coil of three-inch line was thrown
at him; it thumped heavily into his chest. The seas roared against the side,
burying the channel, the broad base of the shrouds fitted to the outside of the
ship. Kydd caught his breath: he knew they were telling him to climb over the
bulwarks and down on to that channel, to work at the stowed black mass of the
sheet anchor and its cable.
He
looked back resentfully at the row of men, who looked gravely back at him. They
were older and more experienced but would be able to remain safely inboard.
Then he understood: he had been chosen for this job because he was a better
seaman than they.
The
realisation warmed him, proofed him against the elements and, with-a jaunty
wave, he swung over the bulwarks and dropped to the channel. It had crossed his
mind to bend on a life-line around his waist, but if he was swept away then the
sudden jerk at the end of the line might cut him in half. In any case the light
line would get in the way.
The
sea-glistening sides of the ship dipped slowly, and Kydd hung on grimly to the
tarry shrouds. The expected seas came, first his feet, thighs, and then above
his waist. A rushing torrent bullying and jostling, tearing at his hold on
life. It seethed around the lower rigging and fittings with a deep hissing and
roaring - then began to recede.
Kydd
snatched a glance at the situation. His task was to apply keckling to the last
yards of the cable as it came from the sheet anchor, wrapping his lighter line,
and stout strips of canvas handed down to him, tightly about the strands of the
cable. It was their only chance, the keckling their sole means to protect this
last anchor from the deadly sharp coral and keep the ship from driving ashore.
The
sheet anchor was lashed outside the shrouds, outside the channel, and Kydd was
exposed to the seas. Edging around the aftermost shroud he stood on the iron
curve of
Kydd
felt a warmth of sympathy. They were better off where they were, out of sight
of the heart-chilling insanity of the storm. He would go to them and try to say
something encouraging, the least he could do. Holding on to anything to hand,
Kydd made his way forward in the noisome obscurity.
But
then his senses slammed in. The ponderous wrench at the beginning of the scend
had disappeared, and a comparatively smooth rise completed the movement. There
could only be one interpretation. With a constriction of his stomach Kydd knew
that an empty cable was running now from the hawse. As if in confirmation, Trajan gave a fish-like wriggle as she careered astern.
Kydd spun round. He hurried as fast as he could to make the upper deck, pulling
along hand over hand. As he got to the base of the ladderway, a combined twist
and jerk told him that Trajan had come up to her second anchor. 'Clear away th'
sheet anchor!' Kydd heard the boatswain howl into the violence, as he breasted
the coaming and came out into the turmoil.
Capple
stared fiercely ahead to the foredeck where men fought and struggled. At every
plunge they disappeared from view under an avalanche of white water. He
noticed Kydd. 'Coral bottom!' he shouted. Coral was a deadly menace: it snarled
and cut thick cables with razor-sharp edges and normally was never chosen for
an anchorage.
A
few yards forward Kydd saw Quist. He was yelling something indistinct, but
ended by stabbing a finger at Kydd, then pointing forward. Kydd grabbed the wet
hairiness of the midships life-line and hauled himself along the bucking deck
to the starboard fore-chains, joining the men at the sheet anchor.
There
was no immediate need for this last anchor they had, but they could leave
nothing to chance. Kydd drew near and was nearly knocked off his feet by the
green water sluicing aft. A cable to the sheet anchor had already been bent and
seized in storm preparations, but anchoring in coral had not been foreseen.
'Keckling
— get goin', Kydd,' the boatswain yelled. A coil of three-inch line was thrown
at him; it thumped heavily into his chest. The seas roared against the side,
burying the channel, the broad base of the shrouds fitted to the outside of the
ship. Kydd caught his breath: he knew they were telling him to climb over the
bulwarks and down on to that channel, to work at the stowed black mass of the
sheet anchor and its cable.
He
looked back resentfully at the row of men, who looked gravely back at him. They
were older and more experienced but would be able to remain safely inboard.
Then he understood: he had been chosen for this job because he was a better
seaman than they.
The
realisation warmed him, proofed him against the elements and, with-a jaunty
wave, he swung over the bulwarks and dropped to the channel. It had crossed his
mind to bend on a life-line around his waist, but if he was swept away then the
sudden jerk at the end of the line might cut him in half. In any case the light
line would get in the way.
The
sea-glistening sides of the ship dipped slowly, and Kydd hung on grimly to the
tarry shrouds. The expected seas came, first his feet, thighs, and then above
his waist. A rushing torrent bullying and jostling, tearing at his hold on
life. It seethed around the lower rigging and fittings with a deep hissing and
roaring - then began to recede.
Kydd
snatched a glance at the situation. His task was to apply keckling to the last
yards of the cable as it came from the sheet anchor, wrapping his lighter line,
and stout strips of canvas handed down to him, tightly about the strands of the
cable. It was their only chance, the keckling their sole means to protect this
last anchor from the deadly sharp coral and keep the ship from driving ashore.
The
sheet anchor was lashed outside the shrouds, outside the channel, and Kydd was
exposed to the seas. Edging around the aftermost shroud he stood on the iron
curve of
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