As the afternoon wore on, water in its every guise crept into the brain, tricked itself into every thought, tantalised and tempted in a way that could only call for wonder at the creativity of a tortured mind. Still the implacable sun glared down on them, sending thoughts fluttering at the prison bars of reality, desperate for any escape from the torment. Time ground on, then astonishingly the sun was on the wane — a languorous sunset began, full of pink-tinted golds and ultramarine sea. And still no wind.
Renzi crawled over to a thwart and drew out of his package a small book. 'My friends,' he began, but his voice was hoarse and unnatural, and he had to clear his throat. 'We are at some hazard, I'll grant, but... these words may put you in mind of another place, another time, what we may yet...
'"The curfew tolls the knell of parting day,
The lowing herd winds slowly o'er the lea,
The ploughman homeward plods his weary way,
And leaves the world to darkness and to me.
Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight,
And all the air a solemn stillness holds . .."'
'Oh, Nicholas, Nicholas!' Cecilia wept. She moved to Renzi, and hugged his arm while the measured, burnished phrases went on until Renzi could no longer see the text.
Night fell. They lolled back and gazed at the vast starry heavens as they drifted in perfect calm beneath. But bodies were now a mass of suffering from the aches of unyielding hardness everywhere and the sight for them held no beauty.
The night progressed, the moon travelled half the sky and still no wind. Then in the early hours an inconsequential puff from nowhere had the sails slatting busily. Kydd heaved himself up from the bottom of the boat where he had been lying and looked across the ebony black sea, glittering with moonlight. A roughening of texture in the glassy sea away in the distance had his heart hammering. It approached, flaws and ripples in a darting flurry that came nearer and nearer. Kydd held the tiller in a death grip, fearful with anticipation, and suddenly they were enveloped in a brisk breeze that sent the longboat heeling, then in a joyful chuckling of water they were under way again.
Croaking cheers broke out - but the breeze dropped, their speed fell away .. . and then the wind picked up even stronger than before in a glorious thrusting urge. The winds held into the morning; with a steady breeze from the north-east, the heat was under control. Eagerly, the midday ceremony with octant and watch was anticipated with little patience, for Kydd took the utmost pains to ensure his workings were unassailable.
Finally he looked up from the frayed chart. 'I’m grieved t' say it, but I was wrong,' he said, but the staring eyes that looked back at him made him regret his black humour. 'That is, th' current, it wasn't as bad as I thought. In fact...' he paused dramatically and pointed '... there — there you will find St Lucia distant but twenty leagues, and there, that is St Vincent. We pass between them and to Barbados beyond.'
It was incredibly elating to be making plans for landfall within the next day. 'Can we stop at an island for water on the way?' Stanhope said. His voice was croaking with dehydration.
'No,' said Kydd decisively. 'We don't know if the French are still in control — after what we've suffered, I don' want us t' end in a Frog prison.'
Cecilia lifted a barricoe and shook it. 'We don't have much left,' she said. Her voice was husky and low, her skin dry and cracked.
'We don't stop,' Kydd said, concentrating ahead. His own voice had a harsh cast.
For a long time there was nothing said, then Lord Stanhope murmured, 'I could insist . . .'
Kydd gripped the tiller. 'No. Y'r not th' Captain. If y’ needs water then you c'n have my share.'
"That won't be necessary,' Lord Stanhope croaked, 'but thank you, Mr Kydd, that was nobly said.'
'We don't stop.'
'No.'
The passage between the two islands was more than twenty-five miles; at their height-of-eye they would probably not even see them. Kydd concentrated on the boat compass, the card swimming lazily under the lubber's line. He had to be certain of his course for if he steered true Barbados lay just eighty-odd miles beyond in the Atlantic, less than a day away.
'When we gets t' Barbados, th' thing I'd like best—'
Before Doud's thought could be finished there was a sickening crunch and a crazy rearing. The longboat came to a sudden halt, sending all hands sprawling and the mast splintering in two. Then the boat slid backwards crazily and into deep water again. The sea was as innocent as it was possible to be, but inches under water, and therefore invisible, a projection of reef not on the chart had been lying in wait. The boat lay in disorder, and Kydd saw clear water in the bottom. 'Clear away th' raffle, Nicholas - we're takin' in water,' he said thickly.
Without being told Cecilia added her weight to the heaving and bundling, her face set and worried, her dress riding up unnoticed. Doud was in the foresheets, bending over again and again and, in silent agony, nursing an injured arm.
It was as bad as Kydd had feared. The very bottom of the boat had taken the full force of the impact and was stove in. By a miracle the worst affected plank was still hanging by a thread, but the crystal clear water of the Caribbean was gouting in. Their survival would now be measured in minutes unless something could be done. Kydd's mind raced. If they stuffed the holes with clothing it would reduce the flow — but at the almost certain risk of the plank giving way and bringing on a final unstoppable rush of water.
'Nicholas, unbend the mains'l, we have t' fother.' They would try to check the inrush by passing the sail around the outside of the boat 'Rest o' ye, bale f'r your lives!'
His fingers scrabbling at the ropes and flaccid canvas Kydd tried to think. Judging by the merest suggestion of misty grey to the north-west they were no closer than a dozen miles from St Lucia. The wreckage of the boat might sink under the weight of its fittings or remain a waterlogged hulk; either way there was no salvation for them.
The mainsail was won from its rigging by sheer brute insistence and sailors' knives, and Kydd staggered with it to the bow. Somehow the unwieldy mass had to be passed under with a rope each side — that required two men - but as well it had to be hauled away aft.
'Which rope?' Lord Stanhope said tersely, stumbling towards them.
'M' lord — if Y’ please,' Kydd said, and handed him one. Cecilia insisted on the opposite one, freeing Kydd and Renzi to ease the sail foot by foot down the outside length of the boat The water was half-way to the knees, unnerving and making the boat wallow frighteningly.
'Bale!' bawled Kydd, and with anything they could find they furiously threw the water overside. There was no telling whether they had a chance and Kydd fell to his work in a frenzy of desperation.
He was unprepared for the inhuman screech that pierced the air. It was Cecilia. She stood in the centre of the boat and pointed shakily - to a hulking white shape below the water that glided past lazily, a lethal flash of cruel eyes and a semicircle of teeth around a gaping maw. Kydd went icy. He remembered the frenzy of killing around the burning ship, the living flesh ripped and devoured before their horror-struck gaze. 'Bale!' he howled.
Cecilia remained frozen near the stump of the mast, her face sagging with fear, staring at the shark. 'I — I hate them — I h-a-a-a-te them!' she said, in rising hysteria. Kydd had never seen his sister like this before and saw that her terror was unhinging her.
His voice caught in a sob, for he knew there was nothing he could do for her. It was probable that before evening every one of them would have been eaten alive - there were now four of the terrible creatures circling the boat. An impossibly huge shark came close, closer. There was a sudden bump and dismaying displacement. Something of its evil ferocity was transmitted in the shock of the blow, a personal message of hatred that was the more terrifying for being felt rather than seen.