Kydd (8 page)

“No, mate — I saw ’im! Didn’t do a bloody thing, just watched while Ollie went over the side. Did nothing ’cept stare, the useless ninny.”

“Yeah, you saw him, but he was givin’ a chance fer Lockwood to do somethin’ for himself. He had the deck, didn’t he?” Kydd recognized Bowyer’s troubled tones.

“It won’t fadge, Joe,” someone replied. “The Captain ’as the ship. There’s no buts in it. It’s his dooty to look after the people, same’s it’s our dooty to look after the ship.”

“Now, what I don’t like is this. When it comes to a situation, it’s ‘sharp’s the word and quick’s the motion’ but he just stood there! Yes, sir, just froze right up!”

“So we gets a dirty great Frenchie, yardarm to yardarm, offerin’ to ventilate our sides — ain’t no time to be stoppin’ and starin’.”

“I seen a scrovy like that!” a voice chirruped from out of the dark.

“Oh, yeah?”

“Did so too. He was touched, that’s what he was, used t’ stare like that — into his vittles, out the window, nobody could speak to him. Right scareful, it was.”

“What happened to him, then?”

“Well, one evenin’ he fell down in the pothouse, kickin’ ’n’ twisting ’n’ scarin’ the daylights out of us all until they took him off ter the bed-lam.”

Kydd snorted into the gloom. “Bloody rot! You’re talkin’ of the falling sickness. Poor juggins to have you as his friend. It’s a kind of fit. An’ what I saw this afternoon wasn’t the fallin’ sickness.”

Another voice challenged, nearer. “So what was it, Mr. Sawbones?”

Conscious that he had attracted attention to himself, Kydd could only answer lamely, “Well, it wasn’t, that’s all.”

The exchange drifted into an inconclusive silence.

The edge of an unseen sail fluttered sharply and quietened, and an occasional muffled crunch of waves came from forward, in time with a slight pitch of the bows. Kydd shifted his position.
He heard Bowyer from farther away: “Can’t blame the skipper, Lofty. He’s new, ’n’ he’s had to take over the barky from Halifax without the smell of a dockin’, poor lady.”

“That’s all gammon, ’n’ you know it, Joe.”

“No — what I’m a-saying is that, as bloody usual, in this war we’ve been caught all aback ’n’ all in a pelt — skipper’s got to get the ship out to meet the Frogs ’n’ ’e’s cuttin’ corners.”

The man grunted loudly. “Pig-shite! You always were simple, Joe. What we ’ave is a Jonah! Seen ’em before. They doesn’t know it even but they ’as the mark! An’ it’s evil luck that comes aboard any hooker what ships a Jonah, as well you know, mate.”

The murmurs died away, and Kydd shivered at the turn in the conversation. He took refuge in the continual run of shipboard noises — the ceaseless background of anonymous sounds that assured him his new world was continuing as usual.

There were a few coughs before a deep voice announced, “When we makes Spithead tomorrer, I’m goin’ no farther than yon Keppel’s Head — get me a good sea coal fire ahead, a muzzler of stingo under m’ lee and I’ll not see daylight until we fronts back aboard.”

“Stow that!” someone whooped. “I’ve got a year’s pay says there’s no fubsy wench in Portsmouth Point’s goin’ unsatisfied while I’ve got the legs to get me ashore.”

The babble of voices was broken by one of the older men. “Presumin’ we get to step off.”

“Course we will! On the North Ameriky station for near two years — stands to reason we dock first to set the old girl to rights afore we join the Fleet. Gonna take at least half a year — we’re forty years old, mate, and you know she spits oakum in any sort of sea!”

“Yeah, that’s right! We had thirteen months ashore off of
Billy Ruffian
in ’eighty-eight, an’ she was in better shape than we by a long haul.”

“Jus’ let me get alongside my Polly — she’s been a-waitin’ for me ’n’ my tackle since St. Geoffrey’s Day.”

The excited chatter ebbed and flowed around Kydd, until it crossed his mind that if the others went ashore, then there might be a chance for him to slip away. A few days’ tramp along the London Road and he’d be back, God be praised, in the rural tranquillity of Guildford.
Distant bells sounded from forward. A hand on his arm broke into these happy thoughts. “Stir yerself, Tom. Now we can get our heads down until mornin’,” said Bowyer.

Their way lit by a lanthorn carried by a ship’s corporal, they passed down to the lower deck. Shadowy figures, the last of the larbowlines, hurried past.

After the cold dankness of the open air, the heat and fug of the broad space, full of slowly swaying hammocks, was prodigious. The air was thick with the musty odor of many men in a confined space and the creeping fetor of bilge smells. With fatigue closing in on him in waves, Kydd stumbled over to his hammock. Stripping off his outer clothes, he followed the example of the others and rolled them into a pillow. He then addressed himself to the task of getting in. It took only two tries before he was aboard, agreeably enfolded by the canvas sides. Some cautious wriggles and he found that the hammock was remarkably stable and, in fact, astonishingly comfortable. The meager “mattress” conformed to his shape and the single coarse blanket was hardly needed, with the heat of so much humanity.

Lying there, too exhausted to sleep, he let his eyes wander restlessly over the scene — the loom of hammocks all around, the dark closeness of the deckhead above and the last few moving figures. Then the lanthorns were removed, and he was left alone with his thoughts in utter blackness.

There was an air of excitement and anticipation as the far-off soft green and gray-black of the land resolved into the Isle of Wight, and Portsmouth, with its sheltered naval anchorage of Spithead. The weather had held, and there was nothing to disturb the winter-bright pearlescence in sea and sky.
Duke William
glided in under all plain sail toward the long dark smudge ahead that was the Fleet at anchor.

A wearisome forenoon had been spent on the ship’s appearance, for it was well known that Admiral Howe was no friend to the indolent. Besides a thorough holystone fore and aft, salt-stained sides were sluiced with fresh water, brightwork brought to a thorough gleam and the seadulled colors around the beakhead and figurehead touched up to their usual striking splendor.

Around the catted bower anchors and aloft, men had been working
since daybreak. It was clear from the short tempers on the quarterdeck that more than appearances would shortly be judged.

Along the line of the deck the gunner’s party were busy at the twelve-pounders with wadhook and shot ladle, removing the live charge and shot from each new-blacked gun. At sea a ship had to be ready to meet any enemy appearing unexpectedly with immediate fire. Now the guns would carry nothing more lethal than a blank saluting cartridge.

The hawse bucklers were removed from the eyes in the bows, the massive twenty-five-inch cable roused out from the tiers below and passed through them before being secured to the bower anchor. Finally the sea lashings were removed, leaving the anchor suspended only by a single stopper. Amidships, the barge and cutter were readied for lowering, the barge crew going below to shift into their smart gear. Kydd noticed activity on the poop deck around the flag locker. Bright bunting, vivid on the gray day, was carefully checked, with the ensign and jack laid out ready for the staff.

Duke William
neared the land, which now took on more detail. Kydd marveled at the number of ships about — tiny tan and white specks of sails up and down the coast as far as he could see: merchantmen, passenger craft and cumbersome naval auxiliaries. But dominating all, stretching over a mile of sea, there were at least a score of great ships-of-the-line at anchor, all arrogance and lofty grace. Closer still, it was possible to note the details of the small craft ceaselessly moving against the low-lying shoreline and the medieval white stone ramparts. At the narrow entrance of the harbor, he saw an untidy clutter of small, rickety buildings perching close by.

It soon became apparent that they were making for the outer end of the cluster of moored ships.

“All hands, bring ship to anchor!”

Hardly a soul stirred, long since standing to at their posts. A rope thrust into his hands, Kydd snatched a glance aft at the small group on the quarterdeck.

The Captain, easily recognized with his large gold-laced cocked hat and imperious bearing, stood in the center of the deck. Next to him was Tyrell’s restless stumpy form, with Garrett close behind. Within earshot, but at a respectful distance, were the Master in his plain black coat and a group of midshipmen.
Lieutenant Tewsley watched the quarterdeck while Elkins kept his eyes on Tewsley and Bowyer watched Elkins.

Kydd held the lee main topgallant clewline as though his life depended on it and waited for whatever would come.

“Stand by to take in topgallants — man topgallant clewlines, fore and main clewgarnets and buntlines!”

Bowyer made no move; neither therefore did Kydd.

“Haul taut! In topgallants — up foresail, up mainsail!”

Bowyer threw off his turns and went to it furiously, frantically imitated by Kydd, bringing in the rope hand over hand, the wind spilling thunderously from the big sail above them.

Duke William
slowed perceptibly, progressing parallel to the shoreline under topsails and staysails. Kydd could not keep his eyes from the scene — so many huge vessels, so much power and threat.

Bowyer moved over to the clewline and Kydd followed. “Which is the Admiral’s ship?” he asked.

Bowyer’s hands on the rope, he cocked his head toward the largest. “
Queen Charlotte,
a hundred guns — Chatham built, same’s
Victory,
but much newer.” His eyes rested dispassionately on the big ship. “But not ever as sweet a sailer on a bowline as that old lady.”

Silently they neared the anchorage, but even to Kydd’s eye, they appeared to be passing well to seaward of the dense gathering of ships. His not to reason why, he waited, grateful for the warmth generated by his recent exertions.

Caldwell raised his speaking trumpet. “Helm a-lee! Topsail clew-jiggers, buntlines! Man jib downhaul!” The ship exploded into action, almost the entire company energetically at some task. Kydd tensed, noticing that the vessel was ponderously beginning a turn toward the anchored Fleet and incidentally the shore.

“Haul taut! Let go topsail sheets, topbowlines! Clew up!”

The turn grew faster, and Kydd’s quick glance aft took in the men at the wheel energetically spinning it to counteract the swing. It appeared that they were heading straight for the last three vessels in line.

“Down jib! Settle away the topsail halliards — square away there!”

The previously taut, finely trimmed sails were now baggy masses pressing against the forward sides of the mast, for as Kydd could see, they
had turned directly into the wind, meaning to slow the ship in her onward course toward the anchored vessels.

Then the wind dropped, fluky and unreliable, and with reduced retarding effect on the fore part of her sails,
Duke William
glided on unimpeded.

Kydd looked at Bowyer beside him, who was watching the approach with rapt attention, his face hardening. Kydd felt a sudden stab of fear. “Joe — Joe, what is it?”

“Christ save us!” Bowyer blurted, staring forward. “We’re falling aboard
Barfleur
!” He reached for the familiar solidity of the forebrace bitts.

Kydd looked back at the quarterdeck — the wheel was hard over, but their slow way through the water did not give sufficient bite to the rudder and the bow’s reluctant swing was agonizingly too ponderous. Looking down the length of the ship, he saw that beyond their long bowsprit loomed the after end of a vessel quite as big as they, toward which they seemed to be sliding inexorably. There was frantic activity on her quarterdeck and poop, booms beginning to stick out in despairing efforts to fend off the inevitable, white faces, angry shouts carrying across the water.

The maneuver had failed in its purpose; the falling light winds blowing against the wrong side of the sails were insufficient to stop the forward momentum of the heavy battleship — a sad misjudgment. And under the eyes of the Admiral.

Kydd watched the drama deepen on the quarterdeck. Captain Caldwell had the speaking trumpet up, but no words came. He looked sideways briefly at Tyrell, who refused to catch his eye, standing square, oak-like, and with eyes in a fierce stare forward. No one moved.

It did not take much imagination to picture the result of the impact of a couple of thousand tons of out-of-control warship on another; Kydd, to his surprise, felt only a strange detached control as he awaited the outcome.

A flurry of shouts took Kydd’s attention forward again. On the fo’c’sle, someone with quick wits had taken advantage of the presence of the fo’c’slemen, the most skilled and reliable seamen in the ship, to stop the downward descent of the jib and to boom it out sideways from its usual
fore and aft position. It took the wind at a slant, and as the sail jerked higher, exposing more area, it tautened and added a lateral force to that of the rudder, and the ship’s head began to move a little faster. They were now very near, close enough to make out on the decks of the other ship running figures, faces at the gunports, a lazy spiral of smoke from the galley chimney.

Beside him, Bowyer remained still, with a grave but calm expression as he watched. Kydd held his breath and braced himself.

Their bowsprit speared across the last few feet of
Barfleur
’s poop, snapping the ensign staff like a twig, instantly dowsing the huge flag. Her spanker boom shuddered and jerked in response to the twanging of rigging as it parted, and a loud
scr-e-e-eak
ended as quickly as it started.

Still swinging, the bulge of their bows narrowed the distance to her ornamented stern galleries, but Kydd saw that they had a chance — the gap was sufficient — and they were on their way past.

The elaborately carved and gilded windows of the First Rate shot by, it seemed at a bare arm’s length, Kydd catching sight through one window as they swept past of a shocked white face, without a wig.

Their momentum carried them on for several hundred yards before they brought to, and they sagged away downwind in ignominy. Now flat aback, the vessel began to gather sternway, and under the last helm order this led to the remaining sails filling once more on the original tack. In silence they went around again, wearing ship, to repeat the whole maneuver. This time they crept in, turning and coming up into the wind well separated from the nearest vessel. The anchor was let go when forward motion ceased, the gun salute banging out from forward to send clouds of acrid smoke smothering aft around Kydd.