Quarterdeck: A Kydd Sea Adventure

by Julian Stockwin

  ‘Aye, sir,’ Kydd replied, moving quickly to him.

  ‘As you must be aware,’ he said gruffly, ‘with four watch-keeping officers, having a second officer-of-the-watch forces them to watch on, watch off. The first lieutenant has asked that the ship’s officers now move to single watches.’

  ‘Sir.’

  ‘Therefore you will oblige me by assuming your own watch,’ he said drily. ‘Should you feel unsure in any situation, you will call me at once. Do you understand?’

  ‘Instantly, sir.’

  ‘Carry on, please, Mr Kydd.’

  The last dog-watch was nearly over when Kydd appeared by the wheel to take the next watch. In the early night-darkness the men stood about quietly, their faces eerily lit from beneath by the dim light of the binnacle lamp.

  ‘Mr Bampton,’ Kydd said in greeting.

  The second lieutenant grunted, and turned to look at Kydd. ‘Course sou’west b’ south, courses are in to topsails one reef, last cast of the log five and a half knots.’ He glanced once at the dark, near invisible sea, speckled prettily with golden pricks of lanthorn light where the convoy sailed on quietly through the night.

  ‘Convoy still seems to be with us, carpenter reports nine inches in the well, we have two in the bilboes.’ These unfortunates would spend all night in leg irons until hauled before the captain in the morning, but it was necessary to pass on the information. In the event that the ship was in danger of foundering they must be released.

  ‘You have the ship, I’m going below. If you get into a pother, don’t call me. Good night.’

  It was done. A momentary rush of panic, then exultation. The man standing on the quarterdeck in command, around whom the world that was HMS Tenacious would revolve, was Thomas Paine Kydd.

  A duty quartermaster held out the chalk log. The watch always started with a clean slate and Kydd took it, his notations of course and sail now holy writ to be transcribed later to the master’s log. He heard the quartermaster murmur the heading to the new hand on the wheel, then saw him squint at the compass before returning to report, ‘Sou’west b’ south, Brown on the wheel, sir.’ Much as Kydd himself had done not so very long ago.

  The figures dispersed, leaving the new watch in possession of the deck. Kydd’s midshipman messenger was behind him, and the mate-of-the-watch with his boatswain’s mate stood to leeward, waiting for orders. The rest of the watch were at different positions around the deck under their station captains, for now Kydd, as an officer, could never treat with them directly.

  Eight bells clanged forward. It was the first watch, and in accordance with practice, the ship went to evening quarters. Mess-decks were transformed as ditty bags were taken down, benches stowed below, mess-traps placed in racks and the hinged table removed. Once again the broad space reverted to its true purpose – a gun-deck with martial rows of heavy cannons.

  At the guns, the fighting tops and in the waist of the ship, men stood ready. It was a time to muster them, to ensure they knew their place in combat intimately, and also it was an opportunity for the seamen to learn about those in authority over them. But this did not concern Kydd, who maintained his watch from on high over them all.

  Quarters over, the men were released. Hammocks were piped down from their stowage in the nettings around the bulwarks and slung below. In the same hour the space passed from a dining room to a ship of war and then a dormitory. The ship changed from a busy working place to a darkened domain of slumber.

  It was a clear night with the wind steady on the beam. Kydd stepped inside the cabin spaces to the lobby, where a small table bore a chart. It was now his duty to think of the bigger picture. A seaman before the mast simply accepted that a course was set to a compass heading. Beyond that, it was of no interest to someone who could have no say in his destiny, but who at the same time did not have to worry about it.

  Kydd lowered the dim lanthorn so its soft golden light was enough to see their pencilled course pricked out. They were heading mainly south with the Canary current to avoid the strong trade westerlies, and to pick up later the countervailing seasonal north-easterlies in a swing across the width of the ocean.

  Kydd stepped out on deck again. He had been in countless night watches and been comforted by the nocturnal sounds: the slaps and dings of ropes against masts, sails occasionally cracking with a high-spirited flourish, the never-ceasing spreading groan and creak of timbers, the ghost-like susurrus of wind in the lines from aloft – all had been a soothing backdrop before. Now its character had changed. Any number of hazards might lie in wait to challenge his still untutored judgement, a started strake even now spurting black water into the depths of the hold, a wrung topgallant mast tumbling to sudden ruin, a sleepy merchant ship yawing across their bows . . .

  ‘Lawes, prove the lookouts!’ It sounded more urgent than he meant.

  In response to his mate-of-the-watch’s hail came answering cries of ‘Aye aye!’ from around the deck.

  Kydd moved along the weather gangway, thumping on ropes. If they gave a satisfying hard thrum they were well taut, but a dead feel under his fist meant a job for the watch on deck. He returned by the lee gangway, looking up at the pale expanse of sail. They drew well, but there was no compelling need for speed, locked in as they were to the speed of the convoy. He had no wish to be known as a ‘jib and staysail jack’, always trimming yards and canvas to the annoyance of the night watch.

  Back on the quarterdeck, the ship’s easy motion was reassuring, the stolid presence of the helmsman and quartermaster companionable, and his tense wariness subsided.

  The master-at-arms came aft from the main hatchway with a midshipman and corporal. ‘All’s well, sir, an’ lights out below,’ he reported.

  ‘Very good. Carry on, please,’ Kydd said, echoing the words of the countless officers-of-the-watch he had known. The master-at-arms touched his hat, leaving them to their solitude.

  The accustomed tranquillity of a night watch began to settle – bringing a disengagement of mind from body, a pleasant feeling of consciousness being borne timelessly to reverie and memories.

  Kydd pulled himself together. This was not the way an officer-of-the-watch should be, with all his responsibility. He turned and paced firmly to the mainmast and back, glaring about.

  The night wore on. It was easy sailing: he could hear the monotone of one of the watch on deck forward spinning a yarn. There was a falsetto hoot and sudden laughter, but for him there would be no more companionable yarns in the anonymous darkness.

  He spun on his heel and paced slowly back towards the binnacle, catching the flash of eyes in the dimness nearby as the quartermaster weighed the chances of a bored officer-of-the-watch picking fault with his helmsman. Reaching the binnacle Kydd glanced inside to the soft gold of the compass light. Their course was true. All along the decks, lines bowsed taut. What could go wrong?

  His imagination replied with a multitude of possible emergencies. He forced them away and tried to remain calm, pacing slowly to one side of the deck. Low talk began around the wheel. It stopped when he approached again. Could they be discussing him? Years of his own time at the wheel told him that they were – and anything else that might pass the hours of a night watch.

  Oddly comforted, he made play of going to the ship’s side and inspecting the wake as if he was expecting something, but his senses suddenly pricked to full alertness – there were sounds that did not fit. He spun round. An indistinct group of men lurched into view from the main hatchway. Even in the semi-darkness he could see that two were supporting a third, slumped between them. Another followed behind.

  He recognised the voice of the boatswain but not those of the other men, who were moaning and arguing. Kydd hurried to the light of the binnacle. ‘Yes, Mr Pearce?’ he snapped at the boatswain.

  The moaning man was lowered to the deck in a sprawl. ‘Fetch the corporal with a night-lanthorn,’ Kydd snapped, ‘and ask the doctor to—’

  ‘Sir,’ Pearce began heavily, ‘Ord’n
ary Seaman Lamb, sir, taken in drink in th’ orlop.’

  ‘What’s this, y’ useless skulker? Think t’ swill out o’ sight, do you?’ Kydd spat venomously.

  The violence of his anger shocked him and he knew he had overreacted. He pulled himself together. ‘What’s y’r division?’

  ‘L’tenant Adams, sir,’ Lamb said thickly, touching his forelock in fear.

  ‘Said it’s his birthday, sir.’

  The white face of the offender stared up at Kydd from the deck. Lamb struggled to stand but fell back.

  Kydd could easily picture what had happened. With typical generosity his messmates had plied him with illicitly hoarded rum in celebration. He had staggered down to the orlop to sleep it off, then had the misfortune to encounter the boatswain on his rounds.

  Kydd’s sympathies swung to the lad. Life on the lower deck in the cold north Atlantic was not pleasant and seamen looked for any kind of release – generally rum.

  But there was no real escape. A ship of war that might in minutes find itself yardarm to yardarm with an enemy was no place for a drunken hand at the guns. Kydd’s duty was plain. ‘Sleeps it off in irons, t’ front the captain in the forenoon.’ Houghton would have no mercy and tomorrow there would be pain and suffering at the gangway.

  Kydd turned his back and paced away. He had no stomach for any scenes of pitiful begging but there were only muffled gasps and grunting as the young sailor was hauled away.

  ‘Bring him forward.’ Houghton stood rigid, his lips clamped to a thin line, his hands behind his back as Lamb was brought before the lectern.

  ‘Take orf that hat!’ growled the master-at-arms. The youth’s thatch of hair ruffled in the wind that buffeted down over the half-deck. His open face was set and pale, but he carried himself with dignity.

  On one side of the captain Kydd attended for the prosecution, on the other was Adams. ‘Well?’ snapped the captain, turning to Kydd.

  ‘Sir, Ordinary Seaman Lamb. Last night at six bells o’ the first watch the boatswain haled this man before me under suspicion o’ drink.’ Caught by the boatswain, prostrate with drink before the officer-of-the-watch, there was not the slightest chance of denial. But the grim ritual of the trial must be completed.

  ‘And was he?’

  Kydd’s answer would be the boy’s condemnation. ‘He – he was incapable.’ He had had as much chance of avoiding those words as Lamb had of escaping the lash.

  ‘I see. Mr Adams?’

  ‘Sir. This lad is young. It was his birthday and his shipmates plied him with grog in celebration but, sir, in his youth and inexperience he was unable to resist their cajolery. It’s nothing but youth and warm spirits—’

  ‘This is of no account! At sea there is no excusing a man-o’-war’s man being found beastly drunk at any hour, when paid by the King to hold himself in readiness to defend his country! Have you anything to add as witness to his character?’

  ‘Er, Lamb is a willing hand. His ropework is admired by all in the maintop. And, er, he volunteered into Tenacious and is always forward in his duty . . .’

  The captain glanced once at Adams, then fixed Lamb with a terrible stare. ‘Have you anything to say for yourself, you rogue?’

  Lamb shook his head and bit his lip. ‘Then I find you guilty as charged. Two dozen!’ Lamb went white. This was savage medicine, quite apart from the theoretical limit of a dozen strokes allowed a captain at sea.

  ‘Haaands lay aft to witness punishment – aaaall the hands.’ Boatswain’s mates strode about above- and below-decks with their piercing silver calls, summoning witnesses to justice. As would be the way of it from now on, Kydd remained out of sight below in the wardroom, avoiding conversation until the word was passed down for the final ceremony.

  ‘Officers t’ muster!’ squeaked a messenger at last. Solemnly, the officers left the wardroom and made their way up to the quarterdeck. There, the gratings were rigged, one lashed upright to the half-deck bulkhead and one to stand on. The ship’s company were mustered ready, a space of open deck, then a sea of faces stretching forward. Kydd avoided their gaze, moving quickly up the ladder to the poop-deck.

  The captain stalked forward to the poop-rail, much as Kydd had seen so many times before from the opposite side, looking up as a foremast hand. Now, with the other officers, he stood squarely behind him, seeing only the back of his head. Blackly, he saw that his view of proceedings was obscured by the break of the poop, and that therefore on all those occasions before, the officers must have seen nothing of the lashes and the agony.

  Marines stood to attention at the rails, a drummer-boy at the ready. Lamb stood before his captain, flanked by the powerful figures of two boatswain’s mates. A brief rattle of the drum brought a subdued quiet.

  ‘Articles of War!’ barked Houghton. His clerk passed them across. ‘“Article two: All persons in or belonging to His Majesty’s ships or vessels of war, being guilty of drunkenness, uncleanness or other scandalous actions, in derogation of God’s honour, shall incur such punishment . . . as the nature and degree of their offence shall deserve.”’

  He closed the little book. ‘Carry on, boatswain’s mate.’

  The prisoner was led over to the gratings and out of sight, but Kydd – flogged himself once – needed no prompting to know what was going on. Stripped and lashed up by the thumbs, Lamb would be in a whirl of fear and shame and, above all, desperately lonely. In minutes his universe would narrow to one of pounding, never-ending torment.

  Kydd had seen floggings by the score since his own, but this one particularly affected him.

  The drum thundered away, then stopped. Kydd’s skin crawled in anticipation of that first, shocking impact. In the breathless quiet he heard the unmistakable hiss of the cat, then the vicious meaty smack and thud as the body was driven against the gratings. A muffled, choking sob was all that escaped – Lamb was going to take it like a man.

  There was a further volleying of the drum; again the sudden quiet and the sound of the lash. There was no sound from Lamb. It went on and on. One part of Kydd’s mind cried out – but another countered with cold reason: no-one had yet found a better system of punishment that was a powerful deterrent yet allowed the offender to return to work. Ashore it was far worse: prison and whipping at the cart’s tail for a like offence – even children could face the gallows for little more.

  The lashing went on.

  The noon sight complete, the officers entered the wardroom for their meal. ‘Your man took his two dozen well, Gervase,’ Pringle said to Adams, as they sat down. He tasted his wine. ‘Quite a tolerable claret.’

  Adams helped himself to a biscuit. ‘I wonder if Canada rides to hounds – ’t would be most gratifying to have some decent sport awaiting our return from a cruise. They’ve quite fine horseflesh in Nova Scotia, I’ve heard.’

  ‘Be satisfied by the society, old chap. Not often we get a chance at a royal court, if that’s your bag.’

  ‘Society? I spent all winter with my cousin at his pile in Wiltshire. Plenty of your county gentry, but perilously short of female company for my taste.’

  Conversation ebbed and flowed around Kydd. As usual, he kept his silence, feeling unable to contribute, although Renzi had by degrees been drawn up the table and was now entertaining Bryant with a scandalous story about a visit to the London of bagnios and discreet villas. Pringle flashed Kydd a single veiled glance and went on to invite Bampton to recount a Barbados interlude, leaving him only the dry purser as dinner companion.

  The afternoon stretched ahead. Kydd knew that Renzi had come to look forward to dispute metaphysics with the erudite chaplain and had not the heart to intervene. Having the first dog-watch, he took an early supper alone and snapped at Tysoe for lingering. Melancholy was never far away these days.

  He went up on deck early, and approached the master. ‘Good day to ye, Mr Hambly.’

  ‘An’ you too, sir.’

  ‘Er, do you think this nor’ easterly will stay by us?’

&
nbsp; ‘It will, sir. These are the trades, o’ course.’ Hambly was polite but preoccupied.

  ‘I’ve heard y’ can get ice this time o’ the year.’

  The master hesitated. ‘Sir, I have t’ write up the reckonings.’ He touched his hat to Kydd and left.

  At four he relieved Bampton, who disappeared after a brief handover. Once more he took possession of the quarterdeck and the ship, and was left alone with his thoughts.

  An hour later Renzi appeared. ‘Just thought I’d take a constitutional before I turn in,’ he said, ‘if it does not inconvenience.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Kydd, dear fellow, have you ever considered the eternal paradox of free will? Your Oriental philosopher would have much to say, should he consider your tyrannous position at the pinnacle of lordship in our little world . . .’

  Kydd’s spirits rose. There had been little opportunity so far to renew their old friendship, and he valued the far-ranging talks that had livened many a watch in the past. ‘Shall ye not have authority, and allow a false freedom to reign in bedlam?’ he said, with a grin, falling into pace next to Renzi.

  ‘Quite so, but Mr Peake advances an interesting notion concerning the co-existence of free will in the ruled that requires my disabusing the gentleman of his patently absurd views.’ He stared out pensively to leeward.

  Kydd stopped dead. Bitterness welled and took focus. Renzi stopped, concerned. ‘What is it, brother? Are you—’

  ‘Nothing!’ Kydd growled, but did not resume his walk.

  ‘May I—’

  ‘Your ven’rable Peake is waiting – go and dispute with him if it gives you s’ much pleasure!’ Kydd said bitterly.

  Renzi said softly, ‘There is something that ails you. I should be honoured were you to lay it before me, my friend.’

  It was not the time or place – but Kydd darted a glance around the quarterdeck. No one was watching. He looked across to the conn team at the wheel and caught the quartermaster’s eye, then pointed with his telescope up the ladder to the poop-deck. The man nodded, and Kydd made his way with Renzi up on to the small deck, the furthest aft of all. It was not a popular place, dominated as it was by the big spanker boom ranging out from the mizzen mast and sometimes activity in the flag-lockers at the taffrail. They were alone.