Quarterdeck

by Julian Stockwin

  Kydd’s blank look made him pause. ‘How long’ve you been made up, then?’ he asked directly.

  ‘Just this January,’ Kydd answered warily.

  ‘Then I’d clap on more sail an’ get as much o’ this business hoisted aboard as you can. You’re boarding officer an’ take in a fat merchantman that the court decides is innocent, expect to explain yourself to the judge in damages!’ He grinned broadly and turned to a pyramid of syllabubs.

  The warm glow of the wine fell away. These men were of a different origin, brought up from the cradle with discernment, education, the talk of politics continually around them. How could he conceivably claim to be one of them? Kydd stole a look at Renzi, holding forth elegantly on some exemplary Greek, then at the admiral, listening with his head politely inclined to a fine story from a young lieutenant, and finally at the officer opposite, who was now yarning with his neighbour.

  Kydd closed the door of his cabin. There was nobody in the wardroom, but the way he felt he did not want to see another face. His experience of the previous night had left him heartsick, unable to deny any longer that trying his hardest was not enough: he just did not belong in this society. He was a deep-sea sailor, true, but as an officer he was a fish out of water; talk of fox hunting and the Season was beyond him, the implications for his acceptance by them only too clear.

  He knew well what was in store: others who had ‘come aft by the hawse’ had found their place – as a tarpaulin officer. Known in the Navy as characters, they were bluff, hard on the men they knew so well and had no pretensions to gentility or learning. Utterly reliable at sea, they were outcasts in polite social situations, and usually took refuge in hearty drinking. As for promotion and ambition, improbable.

  Was this his fate? He had tasted the sweets of a higher life with Renzi – their leisurely talking of philosophers and logic under a tropic moon, the dream-like times in Venice, the dinner with Renzi’s brother in Jamaica had been a taste of what should be, but now . . .

  Thought of his friend brought with it a wave of desolation. Renzi was in his element now, clearly headed for the highest levels and thoroughly enjoying his change of fortune. He had aided Kydd as much as he could, teaching him the forms and appearances, but there was no help for it. This was not a matter of learning the ropes, it was breeding.

  His depression deepened: logic would say – and Renzi was a servant to logic – that in truth his friend no longer needed a sea companion to lighten his intellectual existence and ease his self-imposed exile. Now Renzi had the chaplain to dispute with whenever he felt inclined, Kydd thought bitterly. All told, perhaps it would have been more merciful if Kydd had never known another existence – had never encountered Renzi, even.

  He felt despair and flung open the door for Tysoe. When his servant did not immediately appear he roared his name.

  Tysoe arrived, his hands showing evidence that he had been at work boning Kydd’s best shoes. He wore a perfectly composed expression. ‘Sir?’

  ‘Fetch me one o’ my clarets.’

  Tysoe’s eyes flickered. ‘Will that be two glasses, sir?’

  Kydd coloured. ‘No, damn y’r eyes – just th’ one!’

  When it came, he snatched bottle and glass, slammed his door, then splashed the wine into the glass, hands shaking with emotion. He drank hard, and it steadied him. He stared morosely at the ship’s side in his tiny cabin, forcing himself to be calm. ‘Tysoe! Another bottle an’ you can turn in f’r the night,’ he shouted.

  It was obvious now. There was only one cause for his despondency: loneliness. An outsider in the wardroom, he was cut off from the rough, warm camaraderie before the mast that he knew so well. Now he had no one. And Renzi would be moving on soon, probably taken up as a flag-lieutenant.

  The second bottle was half-empty already, but Kydd’s pain was easing. He allowed the warm memory of Kitty to return: she had stood by him during the terrible days of the Nore mutiny – she had a strength he’d rarely seen in a woman. With her, he might have . . . There was a lump in his throat and he gulped another glass. If only she were here, if only . . .

  He stared at the glass in his hand. Already he was turning into what he dreaded to be – a tarpaulin officer. Through self-pity he was sliding down the same slope as they all must have: to find acceptance they had turned themselves into a patronised caricature, then found a steady friend in the bottle.

  ‘God rot me, but I’ll not be one.’ His harsh croak in the confined space startled him. He seized the bottle and pushed it away. So shameful was the thought that he lurched to his feet and threw open the door, clutching the bottle by its neck. The wardroom was still deserted, all others no doubt gone ashore together.

  ‘Tysoe!’ he called. The man came quickly and silently and Kydd knew why: he had conceived it his duty to stand by his master while he got helplessly drunk, then tumble him into his cot.

  The realisation hurt Kydd: it bore on his spirit that others would now be making allowances for him, and he stiffened. ‘If ye’d like the res’ o’ the wine . . .’ He awkwardly held out the bottle. ‘I shan’t need any more.’

  Renzi was not at breakfast but Kydd found him later in the day in his cabin. ‘The admiral plans to visit his realm in Newfoundland,’ he said, ‘and for some unaccountable reason he wishes me to accompany him. A vexation – if you remember I planned to join the Shiptons for whist.’ He seemed preoccupied. ‘There will be no sea exercises with the admiral in Newfoundland counting his cod, dear fellow. If you can bear to leave your signal books, why do you not see more of the country? You really should get away more.’

  Kydd murmured something, watching his friend rummaging in his chest.

  Renzi looked up, shamefaced. ‘I’d be obliged should you lend me a shirt or two, Tom – there will be a quantity of social occasions in Newfoundland, I’ve heard.’ A surge of feeling surprised Kydd with its intensity as he fetched them, but he said nothing. A stubborn pride still remained, which would not allow him to burden Renzi with the problem.

  Renzi left with a hasty wave. Pringle emerged from his cabin the picture of military splendour, a pair of pigskin gloves in one hand, a swagger stick in the other. He noticed Kydd, gave a noncommittal grunt, then he, too, strode away. Servants came to clear the afternoon clutter, looking at Kydd warily. There was nothing for it but to retire to his cabin.

  Pride would not let him inveigle himself into another’s invitation – besides, he might find 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 officer as crassly ignorant as any foremast hand?

  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 Officer 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 to and fro-ing 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 baffling, 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 fundamental reali
sation 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 officer, have grave military and legal consequences if a wrong decision was made. They might conceivably damn his career or even cause an international incident. In essence, an officer dealt with the wider world; the common seaman did not.

  ‘Mr Kydd!’ Bryant’s bellow reached effortlessly from the quarterdeck 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 satisfied 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 first-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 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 difficult 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 shuffling 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 signified. ‘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 officer. 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 first 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 first lieutenant to call on the officers 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 sacrificed 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 significance 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, 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 officer, at least he would be an informed one.

  He became aware of a figure standing and looked up. It was Tysoe, cupping a small peg lamp that glowed softly with a clear, bright flame. ‘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 hornpipe was being performed beside the jeer bitts of the foremast. Kydd wandered forward unnoticed. The seaman was skilled, his feet flashing 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 fiddler finished with a deft upward note and, with a laugh, took a pull at his beer. ‘Ben Backstay!’ The call was taken up around the deck, and eventually a fine-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,

  Quaffing 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 floated 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,

  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 finished, but the memories she had aroused came on him in full flood, 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.