Kydd (3 page)

The main jeer capstan was at the center of the deck, all gleaming polished wood, its massive shaft extending up to disappear through the low deckhead. Kydd could almost feel the vessel’s strength — the sweep of mighty beams, the thick angular knees and the wrist-thick rope breechings of the guns. The gunports were still open, and through them he could see the wan glitter of the sea a few feet below. He went to the opening and looked out.

Several miles away over the sea, he could see the dull green and brown scarred cliffs of Sheppey. Halfway along the undulating coast was the square tower of a Saxon church on the skyline amid a tiny huddle of rain-washed gray dwellings. He wondered briefly who could be living in such a bleak place. With a pang he realized that for all the chance he had of setting foot there, they might as well have been on the moon.

He pulled back inboard, and despite himself his pulse quickened. Whatever else, he was now caught up in the age-old excitement of a ship ready for sea, outward bound; maybe to lands far away, perhaps to meet mermaids and monsters, and even adventures like the ones described by Mr. Swift.

The light from above dimmed to nothing as, one by one, the hatches were secured. Now only the light reflected through the gunports from the sea remained.

Shortly, from forward, Kydd heard irregular muffled thumps as a party of men began to close and seal the gunports. Now the cold sunlight and chill breeze were cut off, and an oppressive gloom advanced on them. There was no natural light or air now, only a suffocating closeness with uneasy overtones of dread.

Then lanthorns were lit, their dull yellow-gold light catching the flash of eyes, buckles and seamen’s gear, and revealing a nervous young officer arriving down the hatchway ladder.

As Kydd’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he saw that the gundeck, which before had seemed a spacious sweep of bare decks, now appeared crammed with men. It was difficult to make sense of all that went on, but there was no mistaking the role of the big capstan. Deck pillars around it were removed and capstan bars more than ten feet long were socketed and pinned in a giant starfish pattern, a taut line connecting their ends to ensure an even strain on all.

“Nippers! Where’s those bloody nippers?” bellowed a petty officer.

A ship’s boy stumbled up with a clump of lengths of rope, each a few yards long.

“Bring to, the messenger!”

A rope as thick as an arm was eased around the barrel of the capstan, the ends heaved away forward to be seized together in an endless loop. Activity subsided.

“Man the capstan!”

Kydd found himself pushed into place at a capstan bar, among a colorful assortment of men. Some, like himself, were still in shoreside clothing of varying degrees of quality, others wore the scarlet of the marines.

“Silence, fore ’n’ aft!”

Men stood easy, flexing arms and shoulders. Kydd gulped. It was only a few days since he had been standing behind the counter, talking ribbons with the Countess of Onslow. Now he was a victim of the pressgang, sent to sea to defend England. It crossed his mind that she would be outraged to see him transplanted to this context, but then decided that she would not — hers was an old naval family.

“Take the strain, heave ’round!” The distant cry was instantly taken up.

Following the motions of the others, Kydd leaned his chest against the capstan bar, his hands clasping up from underneath. For a moment nothing happened, then the bar began to revolve at a slow walk. A fiddler started up in the shadows on one side, a fife picking up with a perky trill opposite.

“Heave around — cheerly, lads!”

It was hard, bruising work. In the gloom and mustiness, sweating bodies labored; thunderous creaks and sharp wooden squeals answered with deep-throated shudders as the cable started taking up. The muscles on the back of Kydd’s legs ached at the unaccustomed strain.

“Well enough — fleet the messenger!”

A precious respite. Kydd lay panting against the bar, body bowed. Looking up, he caught in the obscurity of the outer shadows the eyes of a boatswain’s mate watching him. The man padded back and forth like a leopard, the rope’s end held on his side flicking spasmodically. “Heave ’round!”

Again the monotonous trudge. The atmosphere was hot and fetid, the rhythmic clank of the pawls and the ever-changing, ever-same scenery as the capstan rotated became hypnotic.

The pace slowed. “Heave and a pawl! Get your backs into it! Heave and a pawl!”

Suddenly a pungent sea smell permeated the close air, and Kydd noticed that the cable disappearing below was well slimed with light blue-gray mud. A few more reluctant clanks, then motion ceased.

“One more pawl! Give it all you can, men!” The officer’s young voice cracked with urgency.

Kydd’s muscles burned, but there would be no relief until the anchor was won, so he joined with the others in a heavy straining effort. All that resulted was a single, sullen clank. He felt his eyes bulge with effort, and his sweat dropped in dark splodges on the deck beneath him.

It was an impasse. Their best efforts had not tripped the anchor. Along the bars men hung, panting heavily.

There was a clatter at the ladder and an officer appeared. Kydd thought he recognized him. The man next to him tensed.

Garrett strode to the center of the deck. “Why the hell have we stopped, Mr. Lockwood? Get your men to work immediately, the lazy scum!” The high voice was spiteful, malicious.

Lockwood’s eyes flickered and he turned his back on Garrett. “Now, lads, it’s the heavy heave and the anchor’s a-trip. Fresh and dry nippers for the heavy heave!”

Kydd was exhausted. His muscles trembled and he felt light-headed. His bitterness at his fate had retreated into a tiny ball glowing deep inside.

“Now, come on, men — heave away for your lives!” Lockwood yelled.

The men threw themselves at the bar in a furious assault. The heavy cable lifted from the deck and thrummed in a line direct from the hawse. Nothing moved.

“Avast heaving!” Garrett screamed.

The men collapsed at the bars, panting uncontrollably.

Garrett sidled up behind Lockwood, whose pale face remained turned away. “You have here a parcel of lubbers who don’t know the meaning of the word work,” he said. “There’s only one way to wake these rogues up to their duty, you’ll find.” He moved forward and glared at the men contemptuously. Only one side of his face was illuminated, adding to its demonic quality.

His chin lifted. “Boatswain’s mates, start those men!”

Unbelieving murmurs arose as the petty officers hefted their rope’s ends and closed in.

“Silence!” Garrett shrieked. “Any man questions my orders I swear will get a dozen at the gangway tomorrow!”

“Heave ’round!” Lockwood called loudly, but with a lack of conviction.

The men bent to their task, but their eyes were on the circling boatswain’s mates. There was no movement at the capstan. A vicious smack and a gasp sounded. Then more. Still no displacement of the thick cable, which was now so tight that it rained muddy seawater on the deck. The blows continued mercilessly.

Kydd heard the
whup
a fraction before the blow landed, drawing a line of fire across his shoulders. The buried resentment exploded, but a tiny edge of reason kept him from a cry of rage or worse.

There could be no possible escape. While that anchor was so fiercely gripped by the mud they would remain at their Calvary.

“’Vast heaving!” The bull-like roar of the boatswain broke into the agonized gasping of the men. He was not contradicted by the two lieutenants.

“All the idlers to the bars — that means all you boatswain’s mates, and you, the fiddler!” He tore off his own faded plain black coat and went to the capstan. “Shove along, matey!” he said, to an astonished marine.

“And it’s one, two, six an’ a
tigerrrr
!” he roared. “
Heeeeave!
”

Men fought the bars as though against a powerful opponent. Kydd threw himself at the capstan bar in a frenzy of effort. Spots of light swam before his eyes and he knew no more than the hard unyielding wood of the bar and the gasps and groans from beside him in the sweaty gloom.

Quite unexpectedly there came a single clank. Then another. Kydd found himself moving forward.

“Walk away with it, lads. Anchor’s a-trip.”

Almost sobbing with relief, Kydd kept up the pressure, desperate to avoid a loss of momentum. The clanks now came so regularly that they were almost musical.

A shout came down the ladder from the relay messenger, acknowledged by Lockwood, who turned quickly and ordered, “’Vast heaving! Pass the stoppers!”

Light-headed with relief, Kydd hung from the bar.

“Well done, lads!” the boatswain said, and retrieved his coat. Garrett was nowhere to be seen.

Kydd gazed muzzily down the length of the ship, then felt the gundeck fall to one side with a stately, deliberate motion, slowly, then faster. He clung dumbfounded to his bar.

An old seaman chuckled. “Don’t worry, mate, she’s casting under topsails, just taken the wind. Now let’s see those shabs topside do a bit o’ work.”

The roll slowed and stopped, then returned, remaining at a small but definite angle. Incredibly, there was no other indication that this massive structure could now be moving through the water. Quickly the capstan and gear were secured, and Kydd fell back with profound relief.

A boatswain’s mate appeared at the top of the ladder and piped, “
Haaaands
to supper!”

That made Kydd keenly aware that he was fiercely hungry, but in the hubbub nobody seemed to care about the bewildered pressed men who stayed where they were, not knowing what they should do.

Others rushed down the ladders, rudely shoving them out of the way
as the mess was rigged for supper. Tables hinged to the ship’s side were lowered into place between each pair of guns. Benches and sea chests became seats, lanthorns shed light over the tables.

Kydd hovered in the darkness at the centerline of the deck, watching friends greet each other, others hurrying past with mess-kettles and kids. Before long the savory smell of the evening meal washed past him. He was left alone. He watched the jolliness and familiarity with a pang, realizing that it reminded him of the fellowship and intimacy of his local tavern, and longed to be part of it.

His stomach contracted violently and he could stand it no longer. Hesitantly he approached the nearest mess, who were listening with appreciative attention to an engrossing yarn from a small, dark-haired sailor clutching a wooden tankard and gesturing grandly.

The story finished with a flourish and helpless laughter, and they returned to their food. Kydd stood awkwardly, wondering what to say. The conversation died away, and they looked up at him curiously. “I’m — I’m new on board, just been pressed,” he began.

They roared with laughter. “Never have guessed it, mate!” a stout, red-faced sailor said, eyeing his country breeches.

“Just wondering, have you anything I can eat?” Kydd said.

“Why, which would be your mess, then?” the stout man replied.

“Only just got on the ship . . .” Kydd tried to explain.

“Well, Johnny Raw, you’d better go aft ’n’ ask Mr. Tyrell ter give yer one, then, hadn’t you?” A hard-faced man leered and looked around for approval.

“Shut your face and leave him be, Jeb. Shift outa there, younker,” the stout man said, thumbing at a ship’s boy sitting at the end of the table. “Bring your arse to anchor, mate, we’ll see you right.” He added, “Dan Phelps, fo’c’sleman.”

Kydd introduced himself, sat down and looked around respectfully.

The hard-faced man leaned across to him. “So yer new pressed, are yer? Know about the sea, do yer? No?” He didn’t wait for a reply. Jabbing his pot at Kydd, he snarled, “Yer’ll suffer, yer clueless lubber. You’re really gonna hurt.”

The conversations tailed off, and around the table sea-hardened men stared at Kydd.

Phelps’s eyebrows rose. “Give no mind to ’im. We has a sayin’ — ‘Messmate before a shipmate, shipmate before a stranger, stranger before a dog.’
 
” He glared around and the talk resumed.

Kydd remained quiet.

Phelps chuckled, then turned to the old man at the ship’s side and called, “Crooky, lend our guest some traps — we can’t have him keelin’ over on his first day.”

Kydd nodded gratefully as a wooden plate landed in front of him filled with a gray oatmeal mix and occasional lumps of meat. Ravenous, he spooned up some of the oatmeal but was instantly revolted. It was rancid, with flecks of black suggestive of darker secrets. The meat was a mass of gristle and definitely on the turn. There was nothing for it: he was famished, so he bolted it down without pause. The gristlebound hunks stayed in the bottom of the bowl.

The repulsive food restored his energy, and Kydd’s spirits rose. He finished his meal and looked up, aware that he had been too hungry to pay attention to his duties as a guest at table. “Er, where are we going, d’ y’ reckon?” he asked. It was still a matter of amazement to him that their busy world was traveling along while they sat down to table.

“Give it no mind, lad, it’s not our job to know the answer t’ that.” Phelps sniffed and leaned over to the grog tub. He waved his pot at the old man. “Light along a can for my frien’ here, Crooky.”

Kydd gingerly took a pull at his tankard. It was small beer, somewhat rank with an elusive herb-like bitterness, but he nearly drained it in one.

“I thought sailors only had rum,” he said, without thinking.

Phelps grinned. “We does, but only when the swipes runs out.” He pursed his lips. “You sayin’ as you want to try some?” he said, in mock innocence.

Kydd looked around, but the others did not seem to notice; they were all comfortably in conversation. “Are you offering?” he said.

“Wait there,” said Phelps, and lurched heavily to his feet. He went forward out of sight and returned with his jacket clutched tight around him as though against the cold. He resumed his seat. “Give us yer pot, mate,” he instructed. Kydd did as he was told and caught the flash of a black bottle under the table. Then his tankard was returned.