In some way balancing canvas had to be bent to the mizzen-mast, but all spars and rigging had been snatched to ruin by the plunging spar and there was nothing left on which to set any kind of fore-and-aft sail of the kind needed. It was now desperate, and minutes counted before they were drawn too far in to set anything to claw their way out. The life of every soul aboard was in his hands. What was he to do?
Unaccountably a picture came to him of L’Aurore lying peacefully at anchor in Port Royal, the sun high and baking hot, but on the quarterdeck there was relief in the shadow cast by the tautly spread awning. At first he couldn’t see it – then, marvellously, he understood. The awning was of the thickest grade of canvas and not too dissimilar in shape to the ruined driver, but more than that, its design incorporated a euphroe, a piece of shaped wood that allowed multiple lines to be secured to it.
He had his sail; with the euphroe, a single block could be used to haul it up in the hammering blast and its foot could be spread by the fallen boom.
‘Mr Oakley!’ he yelled at the boatswain, who was heaving frantically at the wreckage. ‘Take a crew and rouse out the quarterdeck awning.’
The distracted man goggled at him in horror and Kydd realised he must have thought his captain had taken leave of his senses. He shouted a hurried explanation and the boatswain raced to obey. Messengers were sent to the two forward masts to prepare to get under way again while the remainder of the wreckage was cut away.
The block? Someone had to mount the shrouds to the mizzen-top to secure one tightly there or all would be in vain. Kydd gave another, searching, look up. There was the throat halliard that had previously held the jaw – it was a tackle of two blocks, now with the lower torn away, leaving the upper. It was in place. It would do.
But how? A line had to be reeved through and sent down again to the ‘sail’ for hauling up but that line had to be strong, very strong – and therefore thick and heavy. Who could take such a weight up the shrouds one-handed? No one.
In despair Kydd saw his idea fading on the practicalities. Cudgelling his wits he came up with a solution: a pair of seamen with a light line mounting opposite shrouds. They would use this to haul up the tail of the heavy rope, reeve it through and send it down. That was it, blast it!
He glanced about to select those he would send. There was Poulden at his post by the wheel. It was insanely dangerous work, but the man was a natural seaman. Another? Then a mad thought entered. It was his idea: had he the right to order others into such peril? The answer, of course, was that he had the right and the duty, but a stubborn streak took possession of him.
‘Poulden!’ he bellowed, beckoning to him.
Catching something of the urgency, his coxswain hurried up. Kydd laid out his plan. Without any change of expression, Poulden crossed to the fallen gaff and reached out for the end, snagging the signal halliards. He cut off a length, coiling it around his body, leaped to the shrouds and started mounting them.
Kydd, taking the opposite side, launched himself up. Clear of the deck, the wind was frightful, bullying and wrenching as he climbed, doing all it could to tear him from his hold. He reached the futtock shrouds and discreetly took the lubber’s hole route into the top to find Poulden grimly hanging on at each sickening roll, which, magnified by height, always ended in a brutal jerking.
The line went down to where, below, the boatswain was completing the euphroe double seizing. It was grabbed and the heavier rope bent on. Kydd grasped Poulden’s belt as he used both hands to bring up the line, and then they had it.
Lying flat, they peered over the after side of the top down to where the remaining throat-halliard block swung crazily. Hooking his feet where he could, Kydd reached down for the block. At first it avoided him, painfully trapping his fingers against the mast. One-handed, he managed to seize it and manhandle it over to one side against its strop – and Poulden got the rope through in a single try.
Kydd held him again as he drew the rope through the big sheave with both hands until its hanging weight told – and they were done.
By the time they were back on the deck the makeshift driver was jerking up and on the other masts sail was being shown to the wind. To his immense relief Kydd saw that it was working.
Noticeably steadying under the high canvas, L’Aurore got under way again, slow but very sure.
The centre was so near now, rearing up in appalling dark majesty as if to fall on its prey – but they were winning through. As they crossed the hurricane’s track it was now necessary to bring the wind by degrees on to the quarter to break out of the deathly grip of the revolving storm, by taking advantage of the rotation that was now thrusting towards the rear.
Point by point they edged outwards, the wind, which before was coming in from astern, now off the starboard bow. Then, as they won more sea-room, it was abeam until finally it was on the quarter and they were on their way out of the maelstrom.
Against all the odds they had won, but they were not yet out of danger. Their jury-rig driver sail had saved them but it would be useless in the vital manoeuvres of wearing and tacking about, and therefore they could take up on any course – so long as it was on the starboard tack. It was imperative to find somewhere to come to rest and repair.
And providentially they did, but not in the way Kydd would have wished. Some two hours later, with visibility in the still violent conditions down to a mile or two, across their path appeared the loom of an island.
Gradually it extended right across their field of vision, a dark, wooded land that seemed to hold such menace. It was downwind from them, therefore a lee shore. And without the ability to stay about on to the other tack to get around its unknown length, there was only one thing to do.
‘Stand by to anchor – both bowers!’ he roared. ‘And the last five fathoms with keckling,’ he added, with feeling. It had been many years ago but he would remember always the terrible effect of razor-sharp coral on anchor cable.
The men worked with furious intensity for they knew only too well that if their anchors were not ready for letting go by the time they came up with the land they would most surely drive to destruction on the lee shore. Heavy cable, many fathoms of it, had to be brought up from the cable tiers in the lowest part of the ship, hauled along the deck and finally bent on to the anchors on the outside of the bow. Back-breaking work, but with time slipping by, no relief could be had.
Under just enough sail to steady her, the sore-tested frigate closed with the island, which continued to stretch across the horizon. But which island was it? To the west of Jamaica where, without a doubt, they had been blown, there were none in the half-a-thousand miles right to the Yucatan peninsula – except the Caymans. Kydd racked his tired brain, trying to remember how they lay on the chart, then said, ‘Compliments to Mr Buckle and ask him to step aft.’
Looking the worse for weather, his third lieutenant presented himself.
‘Can you tell me the name of this island?’
‘Why, yes, sir.’
‘Well?’
‘That’s Cayman Brac. You see the long bluff-’
In the wind’s bluster Kydd had to lean forward to catch the words.
‘Yes. Is that all?’
‘There’s two Caymans here, three, four miles apart. Not much in ’em, a handful o’ settler families.’
‘I thought they had quite a few – Georgetown, is it?’
‘Ah, no, sir. You’re thinking on Grand Cayman.’
So, a third island – with a dockyard for repairs? ‘How far is that?’
‘Oh, seventy, eighty miles.’
Out of the question – and time was getting short. ‘We’re to anchor here while we repair. Is there anywhere in sight you recommend?’