Kydd (6 page)

It was too distant to see what was happening, and many opinions were expressed, but eventually when the boat drew near again, the chatter died away at the sight of a canvas-covered form lying along the thwarts between the rowers.

The bowman stood in the foresheets and neatly hooked the mizzen chains. The boat lay bobbing alongside, oars tossed vertically. The coxswain stood and cupped his hands. “’E’s dead!” he shouted.

Kydd tailed on to the yardarm whip that hoisted the dead man inboard, secured to the grating. The surgeon, a lugubrious man in rumpled black, pushed through the throng and bent over the still form. “Broken bones and morbid cold — there was never any question.” He did not look up.

*  *  *

The two bells remaining of the exercise time went slowly for Kydd. The sailor’s sudden transition from hero of a lofty world to dead clay was much to take in. His experiences of death previously had been like Old Uncle Peel in a huddle on the high street, and the solemnity of the succeeding funeral. He pulled himself together. There was nothing he could do for the man.

At eight bells — midday — the peal of the boatswain’s calls ended their drill. The Captain evidently did not wish to press the point about times. “Hands to dinner!”

Bowyer turned to him and said sourly, “Let’s get below. I’ve a need to get outside a grog or two after this.”

Grateful for his invitation, Kydd followed him down the fore hatch-way, arriving in the now familiar gloom of the lower gundeck. It was alive with talk, and the tone of the voices and glaring eyes left him with no doubt about the subject.

They thrust past to reach their mess, which Kydd noticed was conveniently not far from the hatchway, just at the point where the round of the bows straightened into the long sweep aft. He thought to count the number of guns from forward. His mess lay between the third and fourth guns. It was already nearly full and now he would be meeting his messmates. What would they make of an unwilling outsider like himself, who knew not the first thing about their strange, dangerous world?

Bowyer grabbed the lanthorn that hung above the table and held it up next to Kydd’s face. “Listen, you bilge rats,” he said against the din, “this here’s Tom Kydd, pressed man o’ Guildford, an’ he’s our new messmate.”

There was a hush, and Kydd watched the faces turn toward him, varying in expression from frank curiosity to blank disinterest. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, in as neutral a tone as he could manage.

A scornful “Pleased ter meecher!” came from a sharp-faced man on one side. “We don’t have that sorta talk here, cully.”

“Stow it, Howell,” Bowyer said shortly. “Don’t you pay no mind to ’im, the old snarley-yow. He is — or was, I should say — a merchant jack and pressed same as you, ’cept he’s makin’ more noise about it.”

Next to Howell a pleasant-faced lad stood up and leaned over to offer his hand. “Dick Whaley, pressed outa the
Maid o’ Whitby,
same as Jonas here.” Kydd took the hand gratefully.

Howell snorted. “What he’s not sayin’ is that I was bo’sun aboard while he was afore the mast — and don’t he forget it!”

Whaley laughed. “And here we’re a pair of foremast jacks both. At least we’ve a chance fer some prize money. In the old
Maid
we was just floggin’ up and down the coast with a belly full of sea-coal, and never the sight of a frolic.”

“Let him sit, Joe.” At the ship’s side was a considerably older seaman, nearly covered with faded tattoos. His mild, seamed face gazed steadily at Kydd.

Bowyer thumbed at the old sailor. “That’s Samuel Claggett, fo’c’sle-man to the quality. Been aboard since the last age, so we ’as to keep ’im in humor.”

While Kydd found his place at the end of the bench the conversations took up again. Diffident, he said nothing and tried to listen to the others. His eyes slid to the men opposite and were caught, to his astonishment, by the glittering black orbs of a Chinaman, the first he had ever seen. The man sat without speaking, his shaven head reflecting the lanthorn glow. Bowyer noticed Kydd’s start of surprise and said, “Say ‘how’ to Wong, then.”

“Er, how!”

“
Ni hau!
” the man replied.

“Wong Hey Chee, able seaman and right heathen but a good hand aloft when it comes on to blow.” Bowyer’s introduction did nothing to affect Wong’s steady stare. “Was a strong man in a circus, was Wong,” Bowyer continued admiringly.

Kydd shifted his gaze to the last man, opposite Claggett.

The man gave him a civil nod, but remained wordless. He had a sensitive face, which bore the unmistakable mark of intelligence. His eyes were dark and unsettling.

“Yes — an’ that’s Renzi,” Bowyer said. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Says nothing, keeps to himself. A rum cove, if you asks me. I’d leave him be, mate, bit quick on the trigger ’e can be.”

Kydd looked back at Renzi and realized what was bothering him. Although clearly at home in a comfortable but plain seaman’s rig, the man did not have the open, trusting manner of a sailor. Neither did he have the close-gathered tarry queue of the older seaman, or the long
side-whiskers and wild hair of the younger. His almost blue-black hair was as short as a monk’s. He was further taken aback when he realized that the man’s gaze could best be termed a glare. He wondered if he had offended in some way.

His thoughts were interrupted by shouts of appreciation greeting the arrival of the grog monkey, a well-used, two-eared wooden kid. It was thumped on the table in front of Claggett, who lost no time in sending an odd assortment of pots and tankards, well filled, back to their expectant owners.

“That’s yourn, then, Kydd.” He slid over a brassbound wooden drinking vessel. Kydd lifted it. It was old-fashioned, the size and shape favored by thirsty countryfolk, but where they would fill it with cider or beer, the sweetness of rum eddied up to him. He was amazed — there was well over a pint of the liquid.

“Here’s to you, Tom lad,” Bowyer said, and upended his own pot.

Kydd felt an unexpected flush of pleasure at the use of his forename. “And Mr. Garrett — damn his whistle,” he replied, lifting his tankard in salute. The taste had an unexpected coolness.

Bowyer’s eyes creased. “Three-water grog, this is only. You’ll be lucky ter get grog twice a week in
Royal Billy
— you’re catching on, mate!”

They both drank deeply. The liquor spread warmth through Kydd’s vitals and he could feel the anxiety draining from him. A smile broke through.

“That’s the ticket! Can be a hard life, a sailor’s, but there are, who shall say, the compensations!”

Kydd drank again and, amid the animated ebb and flow of talk, studied his shipmates once more. Wong was listening impassively to Whaley describing the hardships of a voyage to Esbjerg, while Claggett was speaking softly to a man sitting next to him.

Kydd lifted his pot to drink, but as it tilted he saw over the rim that Renzi’s glowering, intense eyes were on him. Disconcerted, he gave a weak smile and took a long pull at his grog. The eyes were still on him, and he noticed the unusual depth of the lines incised at each side of Renzi’s mouth.

“Where’s that useless Doud? We’ll die of hunger else,” Howell demanded. The others ignored him.

“Hey-ho, mates, and it’s pease pudding and Irish horse!” A wiry, perky young man arrived and swung a pair of wooden kids under the end of the table.

“About time, damn you for a shab!” Howell’s sneer in no way discommoded Doud, whose broad grin seemed to light up the entire mess.

“Come on, Ned, we’re near gutfoundered,” said Whaley, rubbing his hands in anticipation. The lids came off the food, and the bread barge was filled and placed on the table. Mess traps were brought down from their racks and the meal could begin.

After his previous experience Kydd had no expectations. On his plate the pease pudding was gray-green, flecked with darker spots, and clearly thickened with some other substance. The beef was unrecognizable, gray and gristly. Kydd couldn’t hide his disgust at the taste.

Bowyer saw his expression and gave a mirthless chuckle. “That there’s fresh beef, Tom. Wait till we’re at sea awhile — the salt horse’ll make you yearn after this’n!”

He slid the bread barge across to Kydd. Lying disconsolate on a mess of ship’s biscuit were the stale remnants of the “soft tommy” taken aboard in Sheerness.

Kydd passed on the bread and gingerly took some hard tack. He fastened his teeth on the crude biscuit, but could make no impression.

“Not like that, mate,” Bowyer said. “Like this!” Cupping the biscuit in his palm, he brought his opposite elbow sharply down on it and revealed the fragments resulting. “This is yer hard tack, lad. We calls it bread at sea — best you learns a taste for it.”

As they ate, Kydd was struck by the small concessions necessary because of the confined space: the wooden plates were square rather than round and therefore gave optimum area for holding food. Eating movements were curiously neat and careful: no cutlery waved in the air, and elbows seemed fixed to the side of the body. It was in quite a degree of contrast to the spreading coarseness of the town ordinary where tradesmen would take their cheap victuals together.

The last of his grog made the food more palatable, and when he had finished, Kydd let his eyes wander out of the pool of lanthorn light to the other mess tables, each a similar haven of sociability.

He remembered his piece of paper. “Joe, what does all this mean?” he said, passing over his watch and station details.

“Let’s see.” Bowyer studied the paper in the dim light. “It says here you’re in the first part of the starboard watch — with me, mate. And your part of ship is afterguard, so you report there to Mr. Tewsley for your place o’ duty.” He paused and looked affectionately at the others. “And the other is the number of yer mess. You’re messmates with us here now, and on the purser’s books for vittlin’ and grog under that number. Not that you’ll get fair do’s from Mansel, that bloody Nipcheese.” Bowyer smiled viciously. “Yeah — those duds you’ve just got, you’ll be working them off a guinea t’ the poun’ for six months yet. And with a purser’s pound at fourteen ounces you’ll not be overfed, mate.”

He looked again at the paper. “You’re in Mr. Tewsley’s division, o’ course, so yer accountable to him to be smart ’n’ togged out in proper rig, and once yer’ve got yer hammock, it says here you’ll be getting your head down right aft on this deck. Show yer where at pipe-down tonight.” He returned the paper. “That’s all ye need to know fer now. All this other lot are yer stations — where yer have to be when we go ‘hands ter unmoor ship,’ ‘send down topmast’ an’ that. You’ll get a chance to take it all aboard when we exercises.”

Kydd needed more. “What’s this about a gun, then?”

“That’s your post at quarters. We get ourselves into an action, you go to number-three gun lower deck” — he pointed to it —“but I doubts we’ll get much o’ that unless the Frogs want ter be beat again.” Taking another pull at his grog, Bowyer grinned.

But Kydd wasn’t about to let go. “When do I have t’ climb the mast, Joe?”

Bowyer’s laugh stilled the table’s conversation for a moment. He leaned forward. “Tom, me old shipmate, you’re a landman. That means nobody expects you to do anything more’n pull on a rope and swab the uppers all day. Me, I’m an able seaman, I c’n hand, reef and steer, so we gets to go aloft, you don’t.” Finishing his grog, he looked across at Kydd, his guileless gray eyes, clubbed pigtail and sun-bleached seaman’s gear making him the picture of a deep-sea mariner. He smiled good-humoredly. “That’s not ter say you’ll be a landman for ever. What say we take a stroll around the barky? Starbowlines are off watch this afternoon ’n’ yer could be learnin’ something.”

They came out by the big fore hatch onto the upper deck. Up a short ladder and they were on a deck space at the foot of the foremast, beneath
its sails and rigging. The wind was raw and cutting, and the odd fleck of spray driven up by the bows bit at the skin.

“Now, Tom, this ’ere raised part is the fo’c’sle deck, an’ at the other end of the hooker is another, and it’s the quarterdeck, and we move between the two parts by means of them there gangways each side. Gives a pleasin’ sweep o’ deck, fore ’n’ aft.”

Kydd nodded. “So is this then the upper deck?” he asked.

“It’s not, mate. The upper deck is the top one of all that can run continuous the whole length, so it’s the one next under us. We often calls it the main deck, and this one the spar deck, ’cos we useta keep the spare spars handy here.”

Looking about, Kydd tried not to be awkward. “But I see one more deck above this, right at the end.”

“Aye, that’s the poop deck — important on a smaller ship keepin’ waves from comin’ aboard when we’ve got a following sea, but all it really is are the Captain’s cabins all raised up off the quarterdeck — the coach, we calls it.” Bowyer looked meaningfully at Kydd. “You should know, Tom, that the fo’c’sle is the place fer common sailors.” He turned and looked aft. “And the quarterdeck is fer officers. If you’re not on dooty you don’t go there or —”

“I know,” said Kydd.

“It’s a kind of holy ground — same even fer the officers,” Bowyer said seriously, “and they ’n’ you should pay respec’ when crossin’ on to it.”

Kydd’s quizzical look did not bring an explanation.

Bowyer tilted his head to gaze up at the complex array of masts, yards, sails and rigging with something that closely resembled affection. “Now, lookee there, Tom. Any ship-rigged packet has three masts, fore, main and mizzen, and the names of the yards and sails are nearly the same on all of ’em, so you need learn only one. And the ropes an’ all — they take their names from the masts and sails they work, so they’re the same.”

Kydd tried to adopt a nonchalant pose, holding on to a substantial-looking rope. Bowyer winced. “Be careful now, Tom — we scratches a backstay to get a wind, and we don’t want ter tempt fate, now, do we?” He moved on quickly. “And we rate our ships depending on ’ow many guns we ’ave. This one ’as three decks of guns, the most of any, near enough, so we’re the biggest, a line-of-battle ship.” The guns on the fo’c’sle glistened blackly with damp. “We’ve got near one hunnerd o’ the
great guns, the biggest down low, where we lives. We can take on anything afloat, me lad. You pity the poor bastard that finds ’imself lookin’ down the eyes o’ these beauties.”