A hand waved: Kydd sensed the seas then flung his arm at the larboard men. They hauled and fell, staggering and fighting at the tackle, but the bows came round into the blast. The scrap of canvas met the wind end-on and flogged itself to death in an instant, but Seaflower’s bow remained headed faithfully into the tempest.
It could not last. At the point when sky and sea were unrecognisable apart, the sea-anchor gave way. Seaflower’s bows rose like a frightened horse, then fell away in a sickening wallow, the vessel now free of any constraint.
Kydd was aware that, beside him, Merrick was fumbling: he was casting loose his lashing, his life-line. The boatswain clawed his way forward, a hopeless, heroic thing, for Seaflower, it seemed, was now more under water than above. Nearly to the fo’c’sle he was taken by a wave. Clinging to the side he was mercilessly battered by the waterfall until his grip was broken and he was dragged into the rage of sea. Kydd caught sight of him only once as he sped past, the boatswain’s face a frozen rictus of puzzlement as he went to his death.
A numb, unreal feeling crept over Kydd, paradoxically insulating him from the insanity. Intellectually he knew that once the blast caught Seaflower broadside on, she would roll over, perhaps once, twice, then all life in her would be extinguished, all the struggling, all the care, the pity – all would be over. Then a dark lump intruded itself into his vision, clawing across the deck to him. In these last moments left to them he pulled Cecilia to him, her lovely dark hair now plastered across her skull, the dress a torn and useless rag. He felt her trembling violently as he passed his life-line around them both and gulped at the sheer unfairness of it, that such an innocent should suffer a sailor’s lonely end.
Seaflower’s bow swayed off wind: instantly the blast took her and she staggered, beaten. She began a roll, her high side caught more of the hurricane and the roll increased, faster and faster – Kydd hung from his life-line as the leeward seas rushed to meet them. He turned to Cecilia’s upturned face and pantomimed a huge breath. She seemed to understand but then the seas engulfed them both in a roaring, endless finality that was strangely peaceful: they could no longer hear the murderous hurricane.
He felt Cecilia struggle. In the dreamy underwater peace he knew that she was drowning. He bent his head and forced his breath into her mouth, and prepared for his own end – but suddenly he was aware of a whipping, hectoring worry at his skin. They had come upright and the wind was clawing at him once more.
Seaflower now had her stern towards the wind: the roll would return when they passed the midpoint. It was the moment between life and death, a surreal half-way existence that allowed for the sight of the bow surging up at an impossible angle, fleeting dark shapes flicking by, poking above the rushing seas. The tidal surge paused, deposited Seaflower gently among storm-tossed coconut palms, then retreated.
The cutter was held rock solid in the arms of the land.
Chapter 16
In stupefied immobility, Kydd waited the long night through on deck, not daring to slacken his life-line or loosen his grip on Cecilia. The winds howled unceasing, the fabric of the vessel trembled and shuddered, but Seaflower was immovably high and dry among the palm trees, which whipped furiously in the outer darkness.
A wild dawn crept in. With it came a true appreciation of what had happened. The improving visibility showed them a good two or three hundred yards inland, quite upright, held there by the densely growing palms of some unknown island. Their small size had enabled them to surf over the offshore reefs and be carried safely ashore: a deeper hulled vessel would have grounded and been smashed to flinders. Seaflower had brought them through safe and sound. Tears pricked at Kydd.
Cecilia stirred. Her eyes opened and he saw to his astonishment that she had been sleeping. He didn’t trust himself to speak, but Cecilia said something – he bent to hear against the dismal moan of the wind. ‘Thomas, please don’t think to speak of this to Mama, she does worry so.’
They laughed and cried together in the emotion of the moment, and Kydd loosened the cruel bite of the life-line. The fore hatchway opened, a head popped out to look around, and untidy bundles around the deck began to stir. Kydd moved his limbs and stared out at the ruinous scene. Where was Renzi? A wild fluctuation of feeling was replaced by overwhelming relief when his friend’s features came into frame at the after hatchway.
‘“And doomed to death – though fated not to die!”’ Renzi said, with great feeling.
Cecilia got to her feet, futilely trying to smooth her torn dress in the still blustery winds. ‘Pray excuse me, gentlemen, I fear I’m not fit to be seen in polite company.’ She smiled at Renzi and lowered herself awkwardly down the hatch.
Movement was now general about the stranded cutter. Kernon appeared, and Jarman. There was an attempt to reach the sodden ground beneath by rope, and after an exchange of shouts, Kernon was lowered by a tackle, followed by Snead and his bag of tools.
Renzi stretched and groaned. ‘Immured in those infernal regions, waiting for – anything. This I will not relive ever again – I would rather it were ended by my jumping overboard than endure that once more.’
While the gale moderated to strong winds Seaflower came to life. An absurd and out-of-kilter existence, but life. Her company assembled on the ground, among the ragged, tossing palms. They looked up to the naked bulk of their ship and gave heartfelt thanksgiving for their deliverance. Then blessed naval discipline enfolded them. The first act was a muster of all hands – remarkably few souls lost, but a number had tried to drink themselves into oblivion. Then the vessel was stabilised with shores: there was no shortage of palm trunks lying flattened and splintered, ideal for the task.
Lord Stanhope had suffered a fall in the storm and now lay injured, tended by Lady Stanhope. Other unfortunates had broken bones, cracked ribs, but they were young: the noble lord, in his seventies, was facing an uncertain future.
Initial scouting had established that the island was an undistinguished, lumpy specimen of some indeterminate miles around and, as far as it was possible to tell, uninhabited. Springs of water had been found, and goat droppings promised fresh meat.
Immediate dangers over, it was time to take stock. ‘Your best estimate of where we are, Mr Jarman?’ Kernon asked.
‘Sir, both chronometers did not survive th’ storm.’ This was bad news: latitude was easy enough to determine, given a sighting of the sun, but longitude was another matter. ‘And I do not carry tables o’ the kind that I c’n work a lunar.’
‘I see,’ said Kernon. It was fundamental to the strategics of their plight that they knew their position, and his frown deepened.
Jarman took a deep breath. ‘As far as I c’n judge, an’ this is before a good observation o’ the sun, we are t’ the south ’n’ west o’ Jamaica, distance I cannot know.’ He paused, then continued, ‘There are no islands in th’ central Caribbean, but many in the west. The path o’ the hurricanoe was from th’ nor’ east, but you will know their path often curves north – or not. Sir, this is my best estimate, south an’ west o’ Jamaica.’
Kernon contemplated it for a moment, then turned to Snead. ‘The ship?’
‘Nothin’ that can’t let ’er swim, but we ain’t a-goin’ to see that wi’out help.’ He pointed at the two hundred yards of dry land down to the sea. ‘Anythin’ the size of a frigate c’n tow us off, but fer now . . .’
In the rude shelter where he lay, Stanhope stifled a cry of pain. ‘Desire Renzi to attend me, if you would, my dear,’ he whispered. His wife knew better than to object. When they returned he said firmly, ‘Charlotte, I wish to speak to Mr Renzi alone.’
Stanhope looked up at Renzi with the ghost of a smile. ‘We have met, I believe,’ he said, in stronger tones, ‘in – different circumstances, as I recall.’
Renzi did not recall, but there was no point in denying it. It was the merest chance that brought together a foremast hand and a peer of the realm, but it had happened.
‘Your father is no friend to t
he government, as you must agree, but I have always believed his son to be made of straighter grain.’ His smile faded and he winced at the pain. ‘You will have your reasons for decamping from your situation, I have no doubt––’
‘They seem sufficiently persuasive to me, my lord.’
‘It would be my honour to be privy to them.’
It was an impertinence, but Stanhope’s penetrating eyes held his unblinkingly – this was no idle enquiry. Renzi felt that deeper matters hung on his reply. Concisely, and with the least possible detail, he spoke of the moral decision leading to his period of exile.
Stanhope heard him out in respectful silence. ‘Thank you, Renzi. My supposition was not in error.’ He paused, clearly recruiting his strength for a higher purpose. ‘I shall respect your position completely, and with all discretion – and may I express my deepest sense of your action.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘It serves to reassure me of what I am about to do.’ He bit his lip, levered himself up to his elbows and looked directly at Renzi. ‘It is of the first importance – the very first, I say, for me to reach England. The reason is that I have intelligence of certain actions planned by the Spaniards to do us a great mischief immediately war is declared.’
‘War!’
‘Of course. It is planned to move against us once certain matters are in hand, but you can be assured that war is imminent.’ Renzi’s mind raced – Spanish possessions ringed the Caribbean and a whole continent to the south, and he could think of a hundred mischiefs possible against unsuspecting islands.
‘I have no despatches, it is too dangerous.’ He looked soberly at Renzi. ‘I am not sanguine as to my personal survival, and it is a heavy concern to me that my intelligence die with me.’
Renzi said nothing, but feared what would come.
‘I must now make all particulars known to you – under the strictest confidence that you can conceive, Renzi.’
‘Yes, my lord.’ A loathing of dissimulation made him unfit for the role of intelligence, Renzi knew, but there was little he could do to avoid this duty.
‘It may happen that I am able to reach England – Deo volente – but if not, then I do require that you make known your intelligence to Mr Congalton at the Foreign Office by any means you can contrive.’
‘I will.’
He coughed once and lay back. ‘Every day lost racks at my soul. What are our chances of an early return to civilisation, do you think?’
‘Sir, this is something for Captain Kernon to disclose, but I should not be hopeful of a speedy resolution.’
Stanhope groaned, whether in frustration or pain it was difficult to know. ‘Nevertheless, do you please attend. Now, the essence of this Spanish plot is . . .’
Satisfied with his immediate steps in the situation, Kernon strode across the clearing to Lord Stanhope’s shelter, to see Renzi emerging. ‘Is Lord Stanhope at liberty to see me?’ he asked.
‘I do believe he will be more than happy to do so, sir,’ said Renzi, ‘but you will be aware that he is considerably out of countenance owing to his indisposition.’
Kernon entered, removing his hat. ‘Sir, do you wish a report on our situation?’
‘Thank you.’
‘I have good news,’ Kernon began. ‘We have found two springs of water and there are goats on the island. We shall neither starve nor suffer want of water. In large, this amounts to an inconvenience only, my lord.’
‘But our chances of rescue, Captain?’
‘Equally good, I’m happy to say. The master believes us to be somewhere in the south-western Caribbean. This means that we are on the sailing route taken by the logwood traders of Campeche and also the hide droghers of Honduras. It is only a matter of time before we are sighted and Port Royal alerted of our plight. In any event at this moment I have no doubt they are combing the seas for you. Our vessel is unharmed and we have only to wait.’
‘For how long, sir?’
Kernon considered. ‘I am confident that within a very few weeks we shall be found – a month or two at the most.’
‘Damnation!’ The vigour of his response brought a flinch at the pain. ‘Captain, I have every reason to desire an early return, you must believe. Can we not use the boat?’
Kernon looked shocked. ‘I do not recommend such a course of action at all, my lord. The hazards are many, and here we may comfortably await our rescue without risk.’
‘What hazards?’
‘Why, sir, where would we go without we know where we are? If we sail north in the expectation that Jamaica is there and miss it, we face a hard trip to Cuba. If to the north-east we may fetch up against San Domingo and a French prison––’
‘Yes, yes, but it is possible?’
‘But most inadvisable.’
‘Captain Kernon, I want you to understand that I must make the attempt.’
‘My lord––’
‘Prepare the boat, sir, I will not be denied.’
‘If you insist.’
‘I do.’
‘You will need seamen to navigate. I shall myself command––’
‘You must remain with your ship. And so must your only other officer. Is there no other who can figure a course?’ The effort was draining his strength, he grew pale.
‘There may be,’ Kernon said reluctantly, and passed the word for Seaflower’s quartermaster. When Kydd appeared, he said, ‘I cannot order you to do this, Kydd, but are you able to undertake to navigate in a boat voyage to the nearest inhabited place, as determined by Mr Jarman?’
‘I am, sir,’ Kydd replied seriously.
The decision taken, it was short work to manhandle the longboat to the sandy foreshore. The seas were still up, but would almost certainly be navigable in the morning. The longboat was eighteen feet in length and could carry fourteen men with its eight oars. On the sand it seemed large and commodious enough, but Kydd knew that launched into the vastness of the sea it would magically shrink.
It would be rigged for sailing, a common practice for wide harbours and brisk winds, sloop-rigged with a single mast and runner backstays, but with an extensible bowsprit that would allow it to hoist the two headsails of a cutter.
As seamen padded down with the equipment and began erecting masts, tightening shrouds and shipping rudders, Kydd looked thoughtfully at his first ‘command’. At the very least he would need navigating gear. Jarman and he had held conclave for a long time, reasoning finally that the safest assurance of a civilised landfall was to the south-east, the coast of the continent of South America, a guaranteed unbroken land-mass across their path that had a scattering of Spanish settlements continuously along it. Renzi had been unusually positive that in his opinion the Spaniards had not opened hostilities, and that the high status of their passenger would compel immediate assistance.
A boat-compass would suffice to keep a straight track, but Jarman pressed his cherished octant on Kydd. ‘Ye could be grateful t’ run a latitude down,’ he said. ‘You’ll be able t’ return it when y’r done.’
Stores for a voyage of up to a week were found. Renzi came down the beach with a small package. ‘We need food for the spirit as well,’ he said, packing it up under a convenient thwart.
‘You’re coming?’ Kydd said, with pleasure.
‘And why not? To leave you to enjoy the wonders of the new continent while I remain idle? This is asking too much.’
Kydd grinned, suspecting that Renzi’s motives came at least in part from the knowledge that Kydd would need a watch-keeping relief at the tiller. Doud had volunteered to work the sails, and could always sleep between activity, but there would be no rest for the man at the helm. More than that, he knew he would be thankful for real intelligence and cool thought to assist him if it came to decisions that might mean life or death.
‘Could we perhaps contrive an awning for Lord Stanhope? We can take our rest sitting athwart,’ Renzi suggested. The beam of the longboat was nearly six feet, and with sails as padding the
y could lie quite comfortably braced around the sides of the boat.
At first light Kydd was down at the longboat, checking every line and fitting. The awning sewn during the night was tried and declared a success, as was the sliding stretcher hanging below the thwarts.
It was time. Kernon and Lady Stanhope accompanied Lord Stanhope down to the boat, their faces set and grave. Cecilia followed with last-minute comforts for the men, while Stirk carried the heavy water barricoes himself.
‘My darling . . .’ Charlotte bent to her husband and whispered to him while others averted their eyes.
Stanhope’s reply was sad but resolute. ‘No, my dearest, grant me this only, that of all things I will have the confidence that you are safe from harm. I must go alone and, with God’s grace, we shall prevail.’
Her hands squeezed his – then let go.
‘We must put you aboard now, my lord,’ said Kernon, sounding choked.
The boat was drawn up at the water’s edge. The tumbling seas looked colder and more inimical, and glances seaward showed that Kydd was not alone in his feelings. Stirk came up, shuffling his feet in uncharacteristic awkwardness. ‘Y’ere a chuckle-headed sawney as ever I saw, Tom, but I honours yez for it,’ he said, in a low voice. ‘Keep lucky, cock, an’ we’ll step off on a spree some time . . .’
It seemed that the whole ship’s company of Seaflower was gathered as Lord Stanhope was placed tenderly in his stretcher. His wife stood motionless, her stricken eyes fixed on her husband.
Cecilia pushed forward. ‘I shall go with him,’ she declared firmly. ‘He needs care. Kindly wait while I fetch a few necessaries.’
‘It’s – that’s impossible, Miss Cecilia,’ said Kernon, scandalised.
‘Nonsense! I will accompany his lordship – you know that I must, if he is to be of use to any on whatever mission this is that requires so much urgency.’
Lady Charlotte clasped Cecilia and began softly, ‘My dear . . .’
Impatient, Cecilia told her quietly, ‘I know we are in the very best hands, Lady Stanhope, do not concern yourself any further on our behalf. We will be quite safe.’ She hesitated a moment, then said gently, ‘You see, Kydd is my brother Thomas, Lady Stanhope . . .’
Seaflower: A Kydd Novel Page 29