They passed St. Helens and shaped course more westerly for the Channel. Portsmouth finally slipped out of sight behind the Foreland and they steadily forged ahead down the coast for Ventnor and the last of the land. The breeze freshened and at nine knots Duke William was sailing about as fast as she ever would. The sea hissed along her sides at an astonishing rate. Kydd doubted that even a horse at a fast trot would find it possible to keep up.
They reached St. Catherine’s Point, and beyond the prominence ahead in grand fashion Royal Albion reared up, then fell in a broad swash of white. Then it was their turn, the first sea sent in earnest by the broad Atlantic, sending their bow with its great jibboom spearing up to the sky, then to crash down in a stomach-stopping smother of foam.
“Aye, see how she curtsies to Neptune when she reaches his kingdom,” Bowyer said, smiling.
Sails bellied out and hardened as the regular winds of the open sea predominated. In place of the fluky, changeable airs of inshore there was a steadiness, an assertion of the primacy of sea over land.
Kydd’s exhilaration began to ebb. The familiar outline of hills, fields and towns was now an anonymous green and black line becoming more insignificant each time he looked. To a countryman like him it was deeply disturbing to relate only to a wilderness of water, with nothing that could remotely be termed a fixed object.
The ship was now very much alive. She rose and fell with vigor to the waves, forcing Kydd to move from one handhold to another, too afraid to trust his feet. Bowyer didn’t even notice, securing the lines into seamanlike hanks at the belaying pins, his movements sure and precise. “Fair wind at the moment – should make soundings in a day or so if there’s no more westing in it,” he said, after a considered look at the ragged sky.
“And then we’ll face up with the French – the enemy?” Kydd tried not to sound fearful.
“The Mongseers? No, mate, with this wind they’re away off out of it,” Bowyer said. “Won’t come up against them till we weather Ushant, ’n’ then only if they wants to come our way.” He smiled briefly. “They may be out, but it won’t be this way they’re coming. Off to the Caribbee or somewhere, my guess. Anyhow, our job’s to put a stopper on any Frog that wants to get to sea from now on.”
Kydd hung on as he took this in. So there would be no battle soon – he didn’t question Bowyer’s judgment. He looked up at the masts. Now clothed with sails, they gave an impression of a certain clean beauty and grim purpose. He tried a few paces and hung on. There was definitely a rhythm: as he watched, the line of the deck forward lifted, hung and settled, and lifted again. He tried a few more steps and looked back at Bowyer, who grinned at him. Boldly he crossed the deck to the windward side and grabbed a shroud, the wind in his teeth. Playfully, the wind plucked his hat and sent it spinning over the deck and out to leeward.
“Don’t worry, cuffin, I’ll find you another – but promise me next time you rigs yer chin-stay when you’re on deck,” Bowyer said.
There was never a definite time. Never an exact defining instant at which England finally vanished. One moment the far line of the land was there, only just, and the next time Kydd remembered to look, there was nothing but a horizon innocent of anything but the rimming seascape. It should have been a special moment, leaving his native country astern, but he only felt a curious separation, one in which England carried on with its own cares, duties and pleasures down one line of existence, while Kydd and his watery world went another.
At breakfast on the lower deck Kydd kept quiet. There was just too much to take in. Between decks there were new sounds: creaks, groans and random cracks that gradually resolved into a regular sequence – a long-drawn-out deep-throated shudder, followed by a volley of creaks, before a descending sigh of minor sounds. It was also a strange feeling ’tween-decks when there was no horizon visible to act as cue; body perceptions said that the entire structure was rearing up and plunging down, but the eyes just as firmly insisted that everything was solidly unmoving.
No sooner had they completed breakfast than Kydd was startled by the sound of a drum, loud in the confined space of the lower deck. Cutting through the hubbub in rhythmic rolls, its martial sound volleyed irresistibly, an urgent beating, on and on. Instantly there was turmoil. It was clear that this was nothing ordinary – the concentrated look on men’s faces told him that. With thumping heart it dawned on him that this must be the call to arms, a clarion call to duty. If this was battle he could not be more unready. His anxiety turned to fear that he would let his shipmates down, that by his act others would suffer. He stumbled through the welter of activity.
“Bear a fist, then, you useless lubber!” yelled an unknown figure, passing over a detached mess table.
He joined the stream of men striking the tables, mess traps and all their homely articles into the hold below.
The guns were being readied. Where before they had been mere background features of the living spaces, much the same as the old oak sideboard in the living room in Guildford, now they seemed to come alive, to crouch like beasts in Kydd’s sharpened imagination.
“Kydd – is that you?” A young lieutenant with a frown looked at him.
“Yes, sir!”
“Number-three gun, then,” the lieutenant said irritably, more interested in his piece of paper. He moved on.
Kydd moved smartly to the gun indicated. It seemed enormous. Around it was a crowd of men casting it loose and taking up positions. The gun captain acknowledged his presence with a surly nod, busy checking his equipment.
The lower deck was crowded with men, even though only one side of guns was in operation, on the weather, and therefore higher, side. With shrill squeals gunport lids were raised on pulleys, allowing natural light to flood in and giving a close view of the sea outside. It suddenly dawned on Kydd why the inside of the ports and timbers around the guns were painted in so bright a scarlet. The wind streamed straight in through the gunports, making him shiver but bringing a welcome clean sea tang. He wondered what else might be out there, and ducked down to look out.
The sea, bright after the gloom, slid past only a few feet down, individual flecks and flurries in perfect clarity. But of the enemy there was nothing, just endless marching waves, looking much closer and more alive than on deck. It was surprising to feel the calming effect of the horizon. He had made his first vital discovery of the sea: that in a world where every single thing seemed to be in motion, here was something that was fixed and solid, could be relied on – the line of the horizon. Straightening, he dared a look at the man next to him. He was thin and ugly, and wore a beaver hat as shapeless as it was characterful.
The man glanced around and caught Kydd staring at him. He was very ugly, his face foreshortened like a monkey, the forehead disappearing too quickly into a stubble of hair. “You lookin’ for a souse in the chops, cock?” he croaked, in a grog-ravaged voice.
Kydd mumbled something and tried to give his attention to his opposite number, an Iberian by appearance. The man saw him, but looked away in contempt, probably because he was a landman.
The gun captain straightened, and held up his arm. The man was all muscle, and with his striped shirt and red bandanna closely tied over his hair, resembled a pirate. His eyes were hard and took in everything.
“Silence! Silence, fore and aft!” It was the young lieutenant, shrill with anxiety, pacing down the midline of the ship. “The Captain desires me to inform you all that it is his intention to exercise the great guns every morning without fail.”
So much for the enemy and mortal combat, thought Kydd, not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.