Kydd (22 page)

After several more draws at the long clay pipe Renzi spoke. “I come from a family of landowners in Buckinghamshire. We were — are not wanting in the article of wealth, you may believe.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “My education has been thorough and complete, and includes experiences which — of which I am no longer proud. I knew only the life of the indolent, the uncaring and unseeing — I confess, I knew no better. We have many tenant farmers, but my father was not content. His interest allowed him to see a Bill of Enclosure through Parliament that enabled him to increase his holdings. I conceive you know of enclosures?”

“Yes,” said Kydd quietly, “I do. I share the name of Thomas Paine.”

Renzi’s lips thinned. “Then you know with what misery they are enforced, what hardship and want they can cause. It did not stop my father from sequestrating lands that had been under careful cultivation for centuries. In particular one small cottager did break his heart at the prospect — it did not move my father one whit. But it was when the bailiffs marched in to seize the land that they found the man’s eldest and the hope of the family, whom I knew well, hanging by his neck in the barn.” Renzi went on slowly. “My beliefs — I will not bore you — include a devotion to the Rationalist cause. A young man died. Legally there is no blame, but in the moral sensibility, it is as if we had tied the noose with our own hand.”

Kydd’s eyes narrowed.

“My family disowned the consequences of their actions. Were I to do likewise, then I would share in the crime. But if I acknowledge it, then logic — and I am a friend to logic — owns that a penalty must be served. And in my case, as judge and jury, I did pronounce sentence — which is
to be five years’ exile from home and hearth.” Renzi looked away and added, a little too lightly, “A small price for an eased conscience, I believe.”

Kydd had no idea what subtleties could drive a man to such a conclusion, but he found himself respecting and admiring the action. “Do y’ not find the life — hard?” he said.

“There are worse things to be borne, my friend.”

“How long — I mean —”

“It is but ten months of the first year.”

Kydd had the insight to feel something of the bleakness of spirit that would have to be overcome, what it must have cost a cultivated man brutally to repress his finer feelings. He guessed that the reclusiveness would be part of Renzi’s defenses and was ashamed of his previous animosity. “Then, sir, you have my sincere admiration.” Kydd clapped him on the shoulder.

Renzi’s hand briefly touched his, and Kydd was startled to see his eyes glisten. “Don’t concern yourself on my account, I beg,” Renzi said, drawing away. “It has just been an unconscionable long time.”

In the morning, with the squadron wearing in succession and standing in for the French coast to the eastward, the enterprise had begun. They were under easy sail, for the transports from Plymouth would not reach them for another two days-but the time would not be wasted.

“Let’s be seein’ you now. All move over to larb’d, clap your eyes on this ’ere fugleman.” The Master-at-Arms indicated a marine, rigid at attention with his musket.

The men jostled over to leeward and faced the red-coated and pipeclayed marine with a mixture of distrust and interest. His sergeant glaring at him from one side and the Master-at-Arms on the other, he moved not a muscle.

“This man is a-going to pro-ceed through the motions of loadin’ an’ dischargin’ a musket. You will pay stric’ attention ’cos afterward you will do it.” He paused and surveyed the restless seamen. “Anyone can’t do it perfick by six bells joins me awkward squad in the first dog. Issue weapons!”

The gunner’s party opened an arms chest and passed out muskets.

Curiously Kydd inspected the plain but heavy firelock. It seemed
brutish compared to the handsome length and damascened elegance of the parson’s fowling piece; this one had dull, pockmarked wood, a black finished barrel and worn steel lockwork, more reminiscent of some industrial machine.

“For them who haven’t seen one before, I’ll name th’ main parts.”

Within a bare minute Kydd had the essentials: the frizzen covering the pan had to be struck by a piece of flint, which would send a spark to set off the priming in the pan and thence to the cartridge. He looked doubtfully at the muzzle — the thumb-sized bore meant a heavy ball, and this implied a hefty kick.

“Right. We go through the motions first without a cartridge. First motion, half cock yer piece.”

The fugleman briskly brought his musket across his breast and like clockwork brought it to half cock.

The seamen of the gunner’s party went along the line, correcting and cursing by turns. The action of the recurved cock felt stiff and hostile to Kydd — but then it was necessary for a sea-service weapon to avoid delicate niceties.

“Second motion, prime your piece.”

Priming was not difficult to imagine. Brush the frizzen forward, shake in the priming, shut it again.

“Third motion, charge your piece.”

Take the remaining cartridge powder and ball, and insert it in the muzzle. Ram it down with the wooden rammer.

“Present your weapon.”

Lock to full cock. It took a moment to realize that the words meant to aim the musket — present the muzzle end to the enemy.

“Fire!” The finger drawing at the trigger, never jerking — a satisfying metallic clack and momentary spark.

“Rest.” The Master-at-Arms seemed content. “By numbers, one, half cock.”

They went through the drill again and again until it was reflexive, the fugleman never varying in his brisk timing.

Finally the order came. “Issue five rounds ball cartridge!”

The cartridges felt ominously heavy, a dull lead ball with a wrapped parchment cartridge. Kydd put them in his pocket. Nervously he gripped his weapon and waited for the word to fire.

“First six! You, to you with the red kerchief — step over here to wind’d.”

Kydd stepped over as number three.

“Face outboard — number one, load yer weapon.”

The first man went through the drill. The man bit off the top of the cartridge and spat it out. The rammer did its work. A quarter gunner inspected his priming, making sure the powder grains covered the pan but no more, and the man looked at the Master-at-Arms.

“At the ’orizon — present!”

The musket rose and steadied.

“Fire!”

All within a fraction of a second — a click, fizz and
bang
. Gouts of whitish smoke propelled outward to be blown back over them all before clearing.

Roars of laughter eased the tension. As the smoke cleared the man was to be seen picking himself up from the deck. He had not been prepared for the mule-like kick. Kydd resolved to do better.

“Number two!” The man next to Kydd loaded his weapon. He was clearly nervous, and twice made blunders.

“Present!”

The barrel visibly trembled as it was trained, and the man unconsciously held the thick butt away from his shoulder, anticipating the recoil. Cruelly the Master-at-Arms affected not to notice.

“Fire!”

The musket slammed back and with undamped impetus caught the man’s shoulder a savage blow.

With a cry of pain the man dropped his weapon, which clattered noisily to the deck.

“Now you all knows to hold the butt tight into yer shoulder. Number three!”

Kydd loaded his musket, carefully looking to the priming, ramming the ball vigorously down.

“Present!”

He raised the barrel and tucked the butt firmly into his shoulder. The tiny crude foresight settled on the horizon, but without a backsight or other cues Kydd decided to ignore it.

“Fire!”

Leaning into it, he pressed the trigger. The ear-ringing
blam
of the discharge sounded peculiarly less for his own piece than it had when he was standing sideways from the others, he noted. The recoil was heavy, but under control, and he lowered the musket with a swelling satisfaction.

The drill continued until every man had fired two rounds, after which half a dozen of them were called forward, the remainder relieved of their weapons.

“These men will fire at the mark.”

This would be a round cask end dangling from the fore yardarm and steadied with a guy. The men took position on the poop.

“Number one, three rounds!”

At a range of a couple of hundred feet it was not surprising that there were no hits. Disappointed, the man stepped down.

“Number two!”

His first ball took the target near its edge, and it kicked spectacularly. A buzz of excited comment, and the next shot. It missed — the man reloaded quickly, blank-faced. Carefully he brought the musket up and squinted down the barrel. He left it too long — the muzzle wavered with fatigue, and after the musket banged off, the cask end still hung innocently.

There was a shout of derision and the man stepped down disconsolately.

Kydd moved forward. There was an undercurrent of muttering and he guessed that wagers were being taken. He loaded, took position, and the chattering died away. He took a long look at the cask end and brought the musket up, sighting along the barrel. The three-feet-wide target seemed to have shrunk in the meantime, for the merest quiver set the muzzle off the mark. Kydd tried to make sense of the single foresight, then remembered his recent experience and abandoned it. The sighting picture blurred, but in an act of pure instinct, he focused only on the target and let his body point through the gun at the mark.

He drew on the trigger — he heard the distant
thock
before the smoke cleared to reveal the target swaying from a solid hit. He was more surprised than elated.

A buzz of excitement went through the spectators, which died away to silence when he reloaded and took aim once more. He repeated the unconscious pointing and miraculously the target took another hit.

“Silence!” the Master-at-Arms roared, in the sudden commotion.

There must be more to it than this, thought Kydd, and at his last shot he tried to put more science into his aim. The little foresight settled on the target, Kydd finding it difficult to focus on both at the same time.

He knew immediately he pulled the trigger that he had missed, and a spreading sigh from the crowd confirmed it was so.

“Well done, lad — two of three is better’n most,” the Master-at-Arms said.

At conclusion of the exercise Kydd was called over. “M’duty to Mr. Tewsley, and you are to ’ave an extra tot at seven bells.”

“Nasty piece o’ work, them muskets!” Claggett muttered.

“Why’d y’ say that?” Kydd asked.

“If you was in a frigate, yer wouldn’t ask!” Claggett replied with feeling. “You’s servin’ the upper deck midships guns with yer mates, all open t’ the sky, an’ it’s a right smashin’ match, yardarm ter yardarm. Then yer see that yer mates are gettin’ picked orf, one after the other as they’re busy workin’ the guns. You wonder when it’s goin’ to be your turn next. An’ it’s all ’cos they have these buggers with muskets in the tops firin’ down on yer ’n’ you can do nothin’ about it — a-tall.” He drained his pot and glared at Kydd. “Ain’t fer sailors!” he said forcefully.

“Bear away, shipmate,” Doud said. “Kydd may get to settle a Frenchy or two fer you in a couple o’ days!”

In the dog-watches the novelty of imminent action ashore lifted spirits and animated conversations. But it also generated nervous energy that found its release in yet more drill — close-quarters combat.

Kydd realized that this was a totally different affair. Instead of action at a distance, as with any gun, this would be a matter of man to man. The first to make a mistake would surely find himself choking his life out on his own blood. He wondered if he could stand up against some fierce bull of a Frenchman violently intent on his destruction. His imagination produced an image of a big
sans-culotte
, mustachioed, face distorted with hatred and closing in to batter down his guard and hack him to pieces. Kydd tried to focus instead on Lieutenant Lockwood.

“As you are new men, I will commence by mentioning the weapons you may be called upon to employ. First, we have the boarding pike.” He
moved over to the mainmast and selected one from the circle set around the base of the mast. “It is only used to repel boarders, but it is remarkably effective in that role.” Lockwood passed it over. He had a cool, detached manner, which only added to the menace of what he said.

The pike passed from hand to hand, and Kydd gripped it nervously. Slender but strong, it had at its tip a concentrated forged and ground spike. It was seven feet long, and he could not help but wonder what he would do if called away as a boarder to be faced with these pointing at him from the enemy decks.

“And this is a tomahawk,” Lockwood continued, holding up a vicious-looking small axe with a blade on one side and a spike on the other. “You will find that this is actually quite useful also in dealing with cordage, grappling irons and other impedimenta.” He passed it over too. “When boarding an enemy ship you will have two pistols. These are useless” — he fixed the men with a meaningful look —“at more than a few feet range. If you decide to fire, discharge the pistol into the face of your opponent. The piece is then useless — you will certainly have no time to reload — but then you are possessed of a fine club.” Nobody laughed. “Or throw it away.” He reached behind him and produced a bundle of equipment.

The restless stirring died down, each man detecting a change in Lockwood’s manner.

“But this is your main weapon. It is the boarder’s best friend and you will practice its use constantly from now on until it can be relied upon in mortal combat to save your life, and therefore to take your enemy’s.”

Kydd watched, hypnotized, as Lockwood slipped on the equipment. There was a belt around the waist and a cross-belt over the shoulders. A scabbard hung on his left side from which, with a steely hiss, he drew a deadly-looking implement. “The sea-service cutlass!”

An arms chest lay on the gratings, and each man was told to take one. There were no scabbards, so Kydd stood with the weapon awkwardly in his hand. The cutlass was heavy, the wide working blade of dull speckled steel with a thin shine of oil, sharp on one side and coming to a robust point. The ropework hilt was almost enclosed with a black guard, which was plain and workmanlike. Kydd wondered whose blood the weapon had already tasted.