He seized Blackwood’s arm and gasped urgently, above the chaos, “We have to get forrard.”
It was a desperate journey: the roaring blaze blinding them with its light in the blackness, the conflagration’s heat and roar beating on them as they passed, paralysing Kydd’s mind with the stark terror of elemental fire, wild and berserk.
On the far side were the long gangways leading over the waist of the ship and past the boats, still on their skids, to the foredeck. There were scores of men at the ship’s side, broken and gasping, staring at the flaring blaze taking pitiless hold aft, then looking down into the inky blackness of the water. Very few could swim and in the blackness their struggles would be invisible, their cries unheard against the crackling din. Every man now faced a stark choice-to be incinerated or drowned.
“They’re not coming,” Blackwood said, in a low voice, gesturing to the other ships.
The few boats that had been launched were hanging back, fearful of what must come. They knew that when the fires reached the grand magazine of the great guns Ajax would cease to be.
“We’ve got to go,” Kydd urged, but he, too, was held in deadly thrall by the still, dark waters.
Blackwood drew himself up. In strong, solemn tones, he told his men, “There’s no hope for it, I’m sorry to say. Cast yourselves over-side is your only chance. God bless you and keep you.”
Several plunged into the sea but many more held back in eye-bulging terror.
Unexpectedly, Blackwood touched Kydd’s arm. “Dear chap. I hesitate to ask it, but if you’d help me, I’d be much obliged to you.”
In the wildness of the night his calmness reached out to Kydd. “Of course. How might I … ?”
It was the act of a brave and intelligent man. Blackwood knew that his ship was destined for destruction but he realised that the rest of those in the anchorage could not escape in time and would be caught up in the holocaust. He had noticed that they were all riding to their anchors facing into the slight night breeze so he was asking Kydd to help him cut the cable of Ajax to let her drift through the fleet and away before the cataclysm.
They stumbled down the fore-hatchway in near pitch dark, the smoke choking, blinding, while they fumbled about for the riding bitts where the anchor cable was belayed, feeling their way in a howling chaos of panic and death. And all the time the fire was raging out of control. The final blast could happen at any moment; the actual time would depend on where the fire had started. If above the level of the magazine, then the rising heat of the blaze would consume the upper part of the vessel before it ate its way down. If not, then the next second could be their last.
They found the massive square bitts. Grabbing a fire-axe from each side of the fore-mast they threw off their coats and, coughing helplessly, eyes streaming, by turns swung in savage hits at the six-inch thick cable.
Obstinately the cable remained iron-hard and unyielding-the thousands of tons of battleship at her anchor tautening it.
In the confined space they couldn’t take a vertical swing or be sure to strike in the same place and, in despair, Kydd saw that their efforts were only stranding the massive rope. Nearly blinded now with sweat and tears he swung and hit mechanically, on and on, until suddenly the rope parted with a bang and slithered and bumped away out of the hawse.
“Let’s be out!” Kydd gasped, and they made for the broad ladder to the foredeck.
He saw by the other ships starkly illuminated in the outer blackness that they had begun imperceptibly to slip away sternwards.
“Shall we go?” he said, hesitating with his leg over the side-rail.
“I’ll-I’ll be along presently,” Blackwood said, his eyes fixed on the raging fire now turning the whole after end of the ship into a white-hot furnace.
Kydd crossed to him quickly, tugging at his sleeve. “We have to go now-she’ll blow any second!”
Blackwood turned slowly to him with a sad smile. “You see, I can’t swim, old chap.”
Kydd ran to one of the boats and pulled out an oar. “Clap hold of this when you’re in the water until they find you.”
He pushed him to the beakhead, the closer for Blackwood to drop into the water. The man swung down on to the small grating above the bowsprit and, hesitating only a little, grabbed a line and lowered himself down, dropping the last few feet into the blackness. Kydd saw him, frantically splashing about, and quickly let the oar go to float near him. Blackwood grabbed it, giving a shamefaced wave.
With a last glance at the terrible scene Kydd peered down at the dark waters to check they were clear, and let go. A half-second of weightlessness and then shocking cold. He spluttered and kicked until he was head above water and looked around.
On one side was the immense bulk of the battleship, on the other the fleet, its boats hanging back in fear and impossibly far off. The cold was ferocious, clamping in and forcing his inner core of warmth smaller and smaller. He knew that when it was finally extinguished he would be dead.
There were men in the water here and there, some splashing and shouting, others ominously still, but no sign of Blackwood.
He stroked clumsily to a piece of wreckage. It turned out to be a chicken coop, drowned fowls still inside and a body slumped half across it. There was no sign of life, its eyes stared sightlessly up. He gently pushed it off and tried to pull himself up. It was a mistake-out of water the wind cut into him cruelly and, reluctantly, he slid back into it.
The burning hulk of Ajax retreated into the distance and the boats finally moved in.
At the last extremity of bitter cold Kydd was dragged out of the water and a rough blanket wrapped tenderly about him. He joined two or three others bundled on the bottom boards. Shuddering uncontrollably he took a gulp from the flask of rum offered, then lay down, letting the fire of the spirit spread through his body.
It was now only a matter of enduring.
“I think I speak for all of us,” Duckworth declared ponderously, “when I say how in sympathy we are for Captain Blackwood on the loss of his ship.”
“And her company,” muttered Smith.
“And at such tragic cost,” he added, glaring at his junior.
“So we think it in the region of some, two-three hundred perished?” Smith remarked drily.
“By muster, two hundred and fifty-two,” snapped Blackwood, looking haggard and drained. “All good men. Most fought and survived at Trafalgar, poor souls.”
“Then we must think it one of the worst disasters the Navy has suffered in these wars,” Smith came back smoothly.
Kydd felt a rush of anger. Petty bickering to make points when the burial parties had not yet returned from Tenedos. Ajax had drifted as planned, taking the ground on the island to detonate in a thunderous cataclysm in the early hours of the morning.
Duckworth shifted uncomfortably. “Gentlemen, gentlemen, I won’t have any further talk on the loss of Ajax before the court of inquiry sits. We are in the presence of the enemy as well you know and have decisions to make.”
“Then you have reconsidered this venture, sir?” Smith asked innocently.
Duckworth fiddled with a pencil. “We must reflect on our position, I believe. That no one in modern times has forced the Dardanelles bears hard on our hopes that we might be an exception. And with the wind still foul …”
“As is a delay enabling the Turk to be forewarned and bring up his navy,” Smith said.
“Admiral Smith! I am annoyed and wearied by your attitude. Your duty as a senior officer is to support His Majesty’s arms in any operation ordered by their lordships. You’ll be more positive and helpful in your remarks or, by God, I’ll have you relieved of your command, sir!”
Smith gave a half-smile and looked down.
“Now! The ambassador requires we should proceed in this enterprise. We have no option in the matter.” He tugged at his collar irritably.