Free Kydd by Julian Stockwin Page B

auxiliaries. But dominating all, stretching over a mile of sea, there were at least a score of great ships-of-the-line at anchor, all arrogance and lofty grace. Closer still, it was possible to note the details of the small craft ceaselessly moving against the low-lying shoreline and the medieval white stone ramparts. At the narrow entrance of the harbor, he saw an untidy clutter of small, rickety buildings perching close by.
    It soon became apparent that they were making for the outer end of the cluster of moored ships.
    “All hands, bring ship to anchor!”
    Hardly a soul stirred, long since standing to at their posts. A rope thrust into his hands, Kydd snatched a glance aft at the small group on the quarterdeck.
    The Captain, easily recognized with his large gold-laced cocked hat and imperious bearing, stood in the center of the deck. Next to him was Tyrell’s restless stumpy form, with Garrett close behind. Within earshot, but at a respectful distance, were the Master in his plain black coat and a group of midshipmen.Lieutenant Tewsley watched the quarterdeck while Elkins kept his eyes on Tewsley and Bowyer watched Elkins.
    Kydd held the lee main topgallant clewline as though his life depended on it and waited for whatever would come.
    “Stand by to take in topgallants — man topgallant clewlines, fore and main clewgarnets and buntlines!”
    Bowyer made no move; neither therefore did Kydd.
    “Haul taut! In topgallants — up foresail, up mainsail!”
    Bowyer threw off his turns and went to it furiously, frantically imitated by Kydd, bringing in the rope hand over hand, the wind spilling thunderously from the big sail above them.
    Duke William
slowed perceptibly, progressing parallel to the shoreline under topsails and staysails. Kydd could not keep his eyes from the scene — so many huge vessels, so much power and threat.
    Bowyer moved over to the clewline and Kydd followed. “Which is the Admiral’s ship?” he asked.
    Bowyer’s hands on the rope, he cocked his head toward the largest. “
Queen Charlotte,
a hundred guns — Chatham built, same’s
Victory,
but much newer.” His eyes rested dispassionately on the big ship. “But not ever as sweet a sailer on a bowline as that old lady.”
    Silently they neared the anchorage, but even to Kydd’s eye, they appeared to be passing well to seaward of the dense gathering of ships. His not to reason why, he waited, grateful for the warmth generated by his recent exertions.
    Caldwell raised his speaking trumpet. “Helm a-lee! Topsail clew-jiggers, buntlines! Man jib downhaul!” The ship exploded into action, almost the entire company energetically at some task. Kydd tensed, noticing that the vessel was ponderously beginning a turn toward the anchored Fleet and incidentally the shore.
    “Haul taut! Let go topsail sheets, topbowlines! Clew up!”
    The turn grew faster, and Kydd’s quick glance aft took in the men at the wheel energetically spinning it to counteract the swing. It appeared that they were heading straight for the last three vessels in line.
    “Down jib! Settle away the topsail halliards — square away there!”
    The previously taut, finely trimmed sails were now baggy masses pressing against the forward sides of the mast, for as Kydd could see, theyhad turned directly into the wind, meaning to slow the ship in her onward course toward the anchored vessels.
    Then the wind dropped, fluky and unreliable, and with reduced retarding effect on the fore part of her sails,
Duke William
glided on unimpeded.
    Kydd looked at Bowyer beside him, who was watching the approach with rapt attention, his face hardening. Kydd felt a sudden stab of fear. “Joe — Joe, what is it?”
    “Christ save us!” Bowyer blurted, staring forward. “We’re falling aboard
Barfleur
!” He reached for the familiar solidity of the forebrace bitts.
    Kydd looked back at the quarterdeck — the wheel was hard over, but their slow way through the water did not give sufficient bite