Quarterdeck (20 page)

Pride would not let him inveigle himself into another’s invitation—besides, he might fi nd himself in a situation that would end in his making a spectacle of himself again. He burned with embarrassment at the recollection of his conversation at table.

What could they think of an offi cer as crassly ignorant as any foremast hand?

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The wardroom was clear again; he paced about, morose. A book lay on the rudder-head. He wandered over idly and pulled it out:
Observations on the Current War, by an Offi cer of Rank.

It was full of maps and diagrams, painstakingly hatched with tiny lines and minuscule lettering. It covered in great detail every military campaign of the war so far.

He had never had an interest in the interminable toing and froing that seemed to be the lot of the Army, but this book had an introductory treatment for each theatre of war, which sounded robust and useful. His spirits rose a little. This at least was something constructive he could do—learn some facts to ward off assumptions of ignorance.

It was a workmanlike book, and the treatment was clear and direct but, even so, talk of why the Duke of York had considered the Austrian Netherlands worth a hopeless campaign was baffl ing, mainly because it assumed a degree of familiarity with the political background that he did not have.

He persevered, going to each introduction in turn and stitching together a basic understanding on which he could hang his facts. Yet as he did so, he found his attention held by the implications of what he was reading: armies and trade—expressions of a nation’s economic strength, but vulnerable to the quixotic twists of fate and man’s plotting.

It was a new experience for Kydd. He read on until a fun-damental realisation stole over him. He set down the book and stared into space. Until now he had unconsciously thought of his ship as a boundary to his world. He could step ashore in foreign parts and see sights impossible for most, but he could always return to his snug little world and sail away. There, the dangers of the sea and the malice of the enemy were reality.

Now it was all changed. Events in one part of the world could reach out and touch an offi cer, have grave military and legal conse quences if a wrong decision was made. They might
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conceivably damn his career or even cause an international incident. In essence, an offi cer dealt with the wider world; the common seaman did not.

“Mr Kydd!” Bryant’s bellow reached effortlessly from the quarter deck to the fo’c’sle where Kydd had taken refuge from the marines drilling loudly on the poop-deck under an enthusiastic Lieutenant Best.

Hastily Kydd made his way aft. “I’ve been called away, damn it, an’ just when we’re due a parcel o’ new men. Should be coming aboard this hour. Bring ’em aboard, if y’ please, and take all the able-bodied but, mark this, send all the rubbish back—we don’t want ’em, right?”

“Aye aye, sir. Are they pressed men?”

“Not all. We’ve got a press warrant out, but most o’ these are merchant jacks, tired of winterin’, and odd sods off the streets.

We can be satisfi ed with a dozen. I’ll rate ’em when I get back this afternoon.” Bryant jammed on his hat and stalked off.

Kydd warned off a duty midshipman to desire the surgeon to hold himself in readiness, the purser to his slops and the boatswain to provide a holding crew. It was a well-worn routine: the need for men in any man-o’-war was crucial. Even if the ship was in fi rst-class shape, battle-ready and stored, it was all a waste without men to work her. Kydd had no misgivings about what had to be done to achieve this.

“A King’s Yard boat, sir,” Rawson reported. The dockyard launch made its way out to them and, as it neared, Kydd leaned over the side to see what was being brought. Looking up at him were a scatter of winter-pale faces, some listless, others alert, some sunk in dejection. A stock collection—the seamen among them would show immediately: they would have no trouble with the side-steps and bulwark.

The mate-of-the-watch took charge. It would not be seemly

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for Kydd to appear until the men were inboard and assembled; he disappeared into the lobby.

It seemed so long ago, but into his mind, as clear as the day it had happened, came his own going aboard the old battleship
Duke William
as a pressed man, the misery, homesickness, utter strangeness. Now these men would face the same.

“New men mustered, sir.”

Kydd tugged on his hat and emerged on to the quarterdeck, aware of all eyes on him. They were bunched together in a forlorn group near the mainmast. “Get them in a line, Mr Lawes,”

he ordered.

A more odd assortment of dress was diffi cult to imagine.

Bearskin hats and well-worn animal-hide jackets, greasy-grey oily woollens and ragged trousers, even two with moccasins. More than one was stooped by ill-nourishment or age. Some, the ones standing alert and wary, with blank faces, carried well-lashed seaman’s bags.

“I’ll speak t’ them now, Mr Lawes.”

The shuffl ing and murmuring stopped. He stepped across to stand easily in front of them, waiting until he had their eyes. “My name’s L’tenant Kydd. This is HMS
Tenacious.
We’re a ship-of-the-line an’ we’re part of the North American Squadron, Admiral Vandeput.”

Stony stares met him. The men were clearly resigned to a fate known to some, unknown to others.

“C’n I see the hands o’ the volunteers?” A scatter of men signifi ed. “You men get th’ bounty in coin today, an’ liberty later t’

spend it. The rest . . .” Kydd continued: “When this war started, I was a pressed man, same as you.” He paused for effect. It startled some, others remained wary. “Rated landman in a second rate. An’ since then I’ve been t’ the South Seas in a frigate, the Caribbean in a cutter and the Mediterranean in a xebec. I’ve got a handsome amount o’ prize money and now I’m a King’s offi cer.

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So who’s going t’ say to me the Navy can’t be th’ place to be for a thorough-going seaman who wants t’ better himself?

“Now, think on it. Should y’ decide to serve King George and y’r country you could end up th’ same. Give your names t’ the fi rst lieutenant as a volunteer this afternoon and tell him y’ want to do well in the sea service o’ the King and he’ll give ye a good chance.”

Kydd turned to Lawes. “Carry on, these men. Stand fast that one an’ the two at the pinrail—we’ll send ’em back. Rest go below to see the doctor.” The men still had their eyes on Kydd, one in particular, a thick-set seaman, who lingered after the others.

“Good haul, I think.” It was Bryant, watching them leave.

“Surly-looking brute, the last. Shouldn’t wonder if he’s shipped for some very good reason.”

The sun at last became visible through a pale cloud cover, a perceptible warmth on the skin, and Kydd’s spirits rose. Ashore, he could make out a different green from the sombre green-black of the boreal forest, and he thought that the country might seem quite another in summer.

The captain left with the fi rst lieutenant to call on the offi cers of York Redoubt, and a young lady whom Adams had taken up with demanded his constant presence. For now, Kydd decided, he would continue his acquaintance with war’s wider canvas.

This time he prepared to take notes. Sitting at the wardroom table, his back to the stern windows, he picked up his book and resumed reading. He discovered that the thousand-year republic of Venice had been sacrifi ced in a cynical exchange between France and Austria and that the Corsican Napoleon Buonaparte must now be considered England’s chief opponent.

It was truly astonishing how much of momentous signifi cance to the world had happened since he had gone to sea—and to think that he had been unknowingly at the heart of these events. The evening drew in, the light faded, but he had found another book,

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more dog-eared and harder-going, which purported to be a treatment of the economic consequences of a world at war, and he set to.

He felt a small but growing satisfaction: this was one positive course he could take, and it was shaping into a workable aspiration in life. If he could not be a natural-born offi cer, at least he would be an informed one.

He became aware of a fi gure standing and looked up. It was Tysoe, cupping a small peg lamp that glowed softly with a clear, bright fl ame. “Thank ’ee, Tysoe—but does Mr Hambly know I have his lamp?” It was charged with spermaceti oil and used only for painstaking work at the charts.

“Sir, he will be informed of his generous assistance to you when he returns aboard.”

Kydd inclined his head to hear better. “Er, what seems t’ be afoot on the upper deck?” There had been odd thumpings and occasional cries, but nothing the mate-of-the-watch could not be relied on to deal with.

Tysoe bent to trim the lamp. “The hands, sir. They wish to dance and skylark.” Kydd nodded. There were men aboard, visiting from other ships, the weather was clear and it would be odd if there was not some kind of glee going in the fo’c’sle. He laid down his book. Perhaps he should cast an eye over the proceedings.

Darkness had fallen, but it was easy to make out activity on the foredeck by the light of lanthorns hung in the rigging. A horn-pipe was being performed beside the jeer bitts of the foremast.

Kydd wandered forward unnoticed. The seaman was skilled, his feet fl ashing forward to slap back rhythmically, the rigid body twirling in perfect time, while his upper body, arms folded, remained perfectly rigid and his face expressionless.

The fi ddler fi nished with a deft upward note and, with a laugh, took a pull at his beer. “Ben Backstay!” The call was taken up
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around the deck, and eventually a fi ne-looking seaman from another ship stepped into the golden light and struck a pose.

When we sail, with a fresh’ning breeze,
And landmen all grow sick, sir;

The sailor lolls with his mind at ease,
And the song and can go quick, sir.

Laughing here,

Quaffi ng there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free
Is a sailor’s life for me!

The violin gaily extemporised as cheers and roars delayed the next verse. There was no problem here: these were the core seamen of
Tenacious,
deep-sea sailors whose profession was the sea. They were the heart and soul of the ship, not pressed men or the refuse of gaols.

With a further burst of hilarity the singer withdrew to receive his due in a dripping oak tankard, and Kydd turned to go. Then a plaintive chord fl oated out, it hung—and a woman’s voice sounded above the lessening chatter. “Sweet Sally, an’ how her true love Billy Bowling was torn fr’m her arms an’ pressed.”

A blonde woman, standing tall and proud, continued, “Sally’s heart’s near broken, she can’t bear t’ be parted—so she disguises as a foremast jack ’n’ goes aboard that very night.” Kydd moved closer: the woman resembled his lost Kitty.

Aboard my true love’s ship I’ll go,
And brave each blowing gale;

I’ll splice, I’ll tack, I’ll reef, I’ll row,

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And haul with him the sail;

In jacket blue, and trousers too,
With him I’ll cruise afar,

There shall not be a smarter hand
Aboard a man-o’-war.

Her voice was warm and passionate. Talk died away as she sang on. Kydd’s mind took him back to other ships, other ports—and evenings such as this with his shipmates—when he’d had not a care in his heart.

She fi nished, but the memories she had aroused came on him in full fl ood, stinging his eyes. He became aware that faces were turned towards him, conversations dying away. A woman moved protectively towards her man and the expressions became dark, resentful.

Poulden came across. “Sir?” he demanded suspiciously.

These men had every right to their territory, little enough in a ship of war. And he had no right—he did not belong. “Er, just came t’ hear the songs,” he said weakly. “Rattlin’ good singing, lads,” he added, but it fell into a silence. “Please carry on,” he said, louder.

The men looked at each other, then the seaman who had sung

“Ben Backstay” got to his feet and stood purposefully under the lanthorns. He muttered an aside to the violinist and clutching a tankard launched loudly into:

To our noble Commander

His Honour and Wealth,

May he drown and be damn’d—

Singer and violinist stopped precisely in mid-note and looked at Kydd. Their point made, the duo continued:
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—that refuses the Health;

Here’s to thee Billy, honest an’ true;
Thanks to the men who calls them his crew
An’ while one is drinking, the other shall fi ll!

A girl sprang into the pool of light. “A sarabande!” she called.

But Kydd had left.

Chapter 6

“Well, I wish you joy of your voyage, gentlemen—unhappily I have a court-martial to attend and therefore shall not be with you.” There was no mistaking the smug satisfaction in Bampton’s tone. In the normal run of events the inbound convoy would have been met by one or two of the hard-working frigates, but this one was transporting the lieutenant- governor of New Brunswick and his family to take up his post and
Tenacious
had been deemed more suitable.