Kydd kept quiet.
“Well, then! I do declare! Can it be Kydd’s a toady to the gentry — a stinkin’ lickspittle? Mebbe a —”
Something gave way. Kydd threw himself forward and smashed his fist into Stallard’s face, but as he did so he cracked his own head against the low deck beams. Stunned, he fell back, and Stallard dived on him, punching, clawing, gouging.
“Stow it, you mad buggers!” Truscott thrust himself between them, pulling Stallard off Kydd by his hair.
Stallard knelt back. Dark runnels of blood came from his nose and smeared over his face. “Don’t think I’ll forget this, Kydd!” he said.
Kydd looked at him contemptuously. “You’re gallows — bait, Stallardy’r cronies won’t save y’ now!”
He was interrupted by a clumping at the grating, and a petty officer appeared at the hatchway. “Up ’n’ out — move yer scraggy selves!”
They emerged onto the orlop deck, the dull yellow glow of the lanthorns appearing almost cheerful after the Stygian darkness of the hold.
Awaiting them were a pair of marines, in scarlet with white crossbelts and muskets, standing rigidly. The boatswain’s mate had two seamen with him.
“Topsides, gemmun!” the petty officer rasped. “First Lieutenant wants to make yer acquaintance.”
They were herded together, making their way along several gundecks and up endless ladderways to the main deck. Here they were assembled on one side, sheltered from the fitful drizzle by the extension of the quarterdeck above before it gave way to the open area of the boat stowage.
The Master-at-Arms arrived, flanked by his two corporals. He was a stout, florid man with dark piggy eyes that never seemed to settle. “Toe the line, then!” he rumbled at the petty officer.
Shoving the pressed men together, the petty officer showed them how to line up by pressing their toes up against one of the black tarry lines between the deck planking.
From the cabin spaces aft a small party of men emerged; a lectern and a small table were set up. Then an officer appeared in immaculate uniform and cockaded bicorne.
The Master-at-Arms stiffened. “Pressed men, sir!” he reported, touching his hat.
The officer said nothing but stopped, glaring, at the line of men. He took off his hat and thwacked it irritably at his side. He was short, but built like a prizefighter. His dark, bushy eyebrows and deep-set eyes gave him an edgy, dangerous look. The rich gold lace against the dark blue and white of his uniform cloaked him with authority.
In his sensible country fustian, which was now filthy and torn, Kydd felt clumsy and foolish. He tried to look defiantly at the officer while the wind flurried down the boat space, sending him into spasms of shudders.
“I’m Mr. Tyrell, and I’m the First Lieutenant of this ship,” the officer began. “And you’re a parcel of landmen and therefore scum. A worthless damn rabble — but you’re now in the sea service of King George and you’ll answer to me for it.” He stomped across until he was within arm’s length.
Kydd saw that the dark eyes were intelligent as they roved up and down the line. “Forget what you’ve heard about jolly Jack Tar and a life on the rolling waves. It’s a nonsense. We’re now at war, a hot bloody war, and there’ll only be one winner at the end, and that’s going to be us. And we win it by courage and discipline, by God!” He paced past them in a measured tread. “So listen to me! On board this ship you’d better soon understand that we have only one law and that’s called the Articles of War. The quicker you learn that, the better for you.” He paused. “Show ’em the cat, Quentin.”
The Master-at-Arms looked at the boatswain’s mate and nodded. The man stepped forward and, from a red baize bag, carefully extracted a thick, ornate rope handgrip ending in nine strands of much thinner line, each carefully knotted. He teased out the yard-long strands so that they fell in cascade in front of him.
“Every man jack of you is now subject to the Articles of War — and there it says that the penalty for disobedience is death . . .” Tyrell held his audience in a deadly fascination. “. . . or such laws and customs in such cases used at sea,” he snarled. “And that means I may need to ask Mr. Quentin to scratch your back with his cat. Isn’t that so, Quentin?”
“Aye aye, sir, Mr. Tyrell.”
In the shocked silence Tyrell paced back to the table, then turned, his eyes cold. He let the silence hang, doing his work for him. No sound from the men broke the deathly hush, but the mournful keening of a pair of seagulls carried clearly across the water.
Tyrell handed his hat to the clerk and took his place at the lectern. The clerk opened a large book and prepared quill and ink. “You will answer my questions now and this will help me decide how best you will serve. I will rate you here and provide watch and station details later to the officer of your division.”
He glanced at the clerk. “Volunteers?”
“None, sir,” the clerk said, expressionless.
Tyrell’s eyebrows rose. “Begin.”
The clerk consulted his book. “Abraham Fletcher,” he called.
A scrawny, apologetic-looking man shuffled forward.
Raising his eyes heavenward, Tyrell asked sarcastically, “Profession, Mr. Fletcher?”
“Tailor’s cutter,” the man mumbled.
“Sir!” screamed the Master-at-Arms, outraged.
“Sir!” agreed the man hastily, knuckling his forehead.
“Then you’re just the man the sailmaker would like to see,” Tyrell said. “See that Mr. Clough gets to know about him. Rated landman, Mr. Warren’s division. Next.”
It did not take long to deal with them all: Tyrell was clearly in a hurry. “Get them to the doctor. If he refuses any, he’s to give his reasons to me personally.” The book slammed shut. “Then they muster at the main capstan, lower deck. Tell the boatswain.”
A single long squeal from somewhere aft cut through the bustle. All movement ceased. A seaman near Kydd stirred. “Something’s on, lads,” he muttered.
Minutes later, out of sight on the deck below, several boatswains’ pipes shrieked out together — low, high, low. Their slow calls were a barbaric yet beautiful and frail sound carried on the buffeting wind.
“Ah, Captain’s come aboard,” the seaman said.
Tyrell hurried off up the ladder.
“He’ll have to come up this way, mates,” the seaman added.
The Captain appeared from below. He was wearing full dress uniform, sword and decorations with white gloves and gold-laced cocked hat, and was accompanied by a small retinue. He moved slowly, his lean figure ungainly, bowed. Before he began ascending the ladder to the deck above, he stopped and looked about him — suspiciously, Kydd thought.
Over the distance of the width of the deck his eyes rested for a moment on Kydd, who froze. The eyes moved on. The Captain resumed his stately climb up and out of sight.
Nobody spoke.
Chivied by the boatswain’s mate, the pressed men moved on down to the dim orlop deck, to a cursory glance by the surgeon, then back to the lower gundeck. They found themselves trying to keep out of the way in the busy confusion of preparing the ship for sea.
Kydd had the chance to take in more of his surroundings. A few yards away from the capstan, the weak winter sunlight still penetrated through the main hatches on all the decks, on down even through the orlop below to the hold, casting an unearthly bright glow on the seamen taking the last of the stores aboard. On either side, great cannon stretched away into the distance, the implements of gunnery ready to hand beside them, lashed to the deckhead, while more homely articles were stowed at the ship’s side in neat vertical racks between each gun.
The main jeer capstan was at the center of the deck, all gleaming polished wood, its massive shaft extending up to disappear through the low deckhead. Kydd could almost feel the vessel’s strength — the sweep of mighty beams, the thick angular knees and the wrist-thick rope breechings of the guns. The gunports were still open, and through them he could see th
e wan glitter of the sea a few feet below. He went to the opening and looked out.
Several miles away over the sea, he could see the dull green and brown scarred cliffs of Sheppey. Halfway along the undulating coast was the square tower of a Saxon church on the skyline amid a tiny huddle of rain-washed gray dwellings. He wondered briefly who could be living in such a bleak place. With a pang he realized that for all the chance he had of setting foot there, they might as well have been on the moon.
He pulled back inboard, and despite himself his pulse quickened. Whatever else, he was now caught up in the age-old excitement of a ship ready for sea, outward bound; maybe to lands far away, perhaps to meet mermaids and monsters, and even adventures like the ones described by Mr. Swift.
The light from above dimmed to nothing as, one by one, the hatches were secured. Now only the light reflected through the gunports from the sea remained.
Shortly, from forward, Kydd heard irregular muffled thumps as a party of men began to close and seal the gunports. Now the cold sunlight and chill breeze were cut off, and an oppressive gloom advanced on them. There was no natural light or air now, only a suffocating closeness with uneasy overtones of dread.
Then lanthorns were lit, their dull yellow-gold light catching the flash of eyes, buckles and seamen’s gear, and revealing a nervous young officer arriving down the hatchway ladder.
As Kydd’s eyes grew accustomed to the dark, he saw that the gundeck, which before had seemed a spacious sweep of bare decks, now appeared crammed with men. It was difficult to make sense of all that went on, but there was no mistaking the role of the big capstan. Deck pillars around it were removed and capstan bars more than ten feet long were socketed and pinned in a giant starfish pattern, a taut line connecting their ends to ensure an even strain on all.
“Nippers! Where’s those bloody nippers?” bellowed a petty officer.
A ship’s boy stumbled up with a clump of lengths of rope, each a few yards long.
“Bring to, the messenger!”
A rope as thick as an arm was eased around the barrel of the capstan, the ends heaved away forward to be seized together in an endless loop. Activity subsided.
“Man the capstan!”
Kydd found himself pushed into place at a capstan bar, among a colorful assortment of men. Some, like himself, were still in shoreside clothing of varying degrees of quality, others wore the scarlet of the marines.
“Silence, fore ’n’ aft!”
Men stood easy, flexing arms and shoulders. Kydd gulped. It was only a few days since he had been standing behind the counter, talking ribbons with the Countess of Onslow. Now he was a victim of the pressgang, sent to sea to defend England. It crossed his mind that she would be outraged to see him transplanted to this context, but then decided that she would not — hers was an old naval family.
“Take the strain, heave ’round!” The distant cry was instantly taken up.
Following the motions of the others, Kydd leaned his chest against the capstan bar, his hands clasping up from underneath. For a moment nothing happened, then the bar began to revolve at a slow walk. A fiddler started up in the shadows on one side, a fife picking up with a perky trill opposite.
“Heave around — cheerly, lads!”
It was hard, bruising work. In the gloom and mustiness, sweating bodies labored; thunderous creaks and sharp wooden squeals answered with deep-throated shudders as the cable started taking up. The muscles on the back of Kydd’s legs ached at the unaccustomed strain.
“Well enough — fleet the messenger!”
A precious respite. Kydd lay panting against the bar, body bowed. Looking up, he caught in the obscurity of the outer shadows the eyes of a boatswain’s mate watching him. The man padded back and forth like a leopard, the rope’s end held on his side flicking spasmodically. “Heave ’round!”
Again the monotonous trudge. The atmosphere was hot and fetid, the rhythmic clank of the pawls and the ever-changing, ever-same scenery as the capstan rotated became hypnotic.
The pace slowed. “Heave and a pawl! Get your backs into it! Heave and a pawl!”
Suddenly a pungent sea smell permeated the close air, and Kydd noticed that the cable disappearing below was well slimed with light blue-gray mud. A few more reluctant clanks, then motion ceased.
“One more pawl! Give it all you can, men!” The officer’s young voice cracked with urgency.
Kydd’s muscles burned, but there would be no relief until the anchor was won, so he joined with the others in a heavy straining effort. All that resulted was a single, sullen clank. He felt his eyes bulge with effort, and his sweat dropped in dark splodges on the deck beneath him.
It was an impasse. Their best efforts had not tripped the anchor. Along the bars men hung, panting heavily.
There was a clatter at the ladder and an officer appeared. Kydd thought he recognized him. The man next to him tensed.
Garrett strode to the center of the deck. “Why the hell have we stopped, Mr. Lockwood? Get your men to work immediately, the lazy scum!” The high voice was spiteful, malicious.
Lockwood’s eyes flickered and he turned his back on Garrett. “Now, lads, it’s the heavy heave and the anchor’s a-trip. Fresh and dry nippers for the heavy heave!”
Kydd was exhausted. His muscles trembled and he felt light-headed. His bitterness at his fate had retreated into a tiny ball glowing deep inside.
“Now, come on, men — heave away for your lives!” Lockwood yelled.
The men threw themselves at the bar in a furious assault. The heavy cable lifted from the deck and thrummed in a line direct from the hawse. Nothing moved.
“Avast heaving!” Garrett screamed.
The men collapsed at the bars, panting uncontrollably.
Garrett sidled up behind Lockwood, whose pale face remained turned away. “You have here a parcel of lubbers who don’t know the meaning of the word work,” he said. “There’s only one way to wake these rogues up to their duty, you’ll find.” He moved forward and glared at the men contemptuously. Only one side of his face was illuminated, adding to its demonic quality.
His chin lifted. “Boatswain’s mates, start those men!”
Unbelieving murmurs arose as the petty officers hefted their rope’s ends and closed in.
“Silence!” Garrett shrieked. “Any man questions my orders I swear will get a dozen at the gangway tomorrow!”
“Heave ’round!” Lockwood called loudly, but with a lack of conviction.
The men bent to their task, but their eyes were on the circling boatswain’s mates. There was no movement at the capstan. A vicious smack and a gasp sounded. Then more. Still no displacement of the thick cable, which was now so tight that it rained muddy seawater on the deck. The blows continued mercilessly.
Kydd heard the whup a fraction before the blow landed, drawing a line of fire across his shoulders. The buried resentment exploded, but a tiny edge of reason kept him from a cry of rage or worse.
There could be no possible escape. While that anchor was so fiercely gripped by the mud they would remain at their Calvary.
“’Vast heaving!” The bull-like roar of the boatswain broke into the agonized gasping of the men. He was not contradicted by the two lieutenants.
“All the idlers to the bars — that means all you boatswain’s mates, and you, the fiddler!” He tore off his own faded plain black coat and went to the capstan. “Shove along, matey!” he said, to an astonished marine.
“And it’s one, two, six an’ a tigerrrr!” he roared. “Heeeeave!”
Men fought the bars as though against a powerful opponent. Kydd threw himself at the capstan bar in a frenzy of effort. Spots of light swam before his eyes and he knew no more than the hard unyielding wood of the bar and the gasps and groans from beside him in the sweaty gloom.
Quite unexpectedly there came a single clank. Then another. Kydd found himself moving forward.
“Walk away with it, lads. Anchor’s a-trip.”
Almost
sobbing with relief, Kydd kept up the pressure, desperate to avoid a loss of momentum. The clanks now came so regularly that they were almost musical.
A shout came down the ladder from the relay messenger, acknowledged by Lockwood, who turned quickly and ordered, “’Vast heaving! Pass the stoppers!”
Light-headed with relief, Kydd hung from the bar.
“Well done, lads!” the boatswain said, and retrieved his coat. Garrett was nowhere to be seen.
Kydd gazed muzzily down the length of the ship, then felt the gundeck fall to one side with a stately, deliberate motion, slowly, then faster. He clung dumbfounded to his bar.
An old seaman chuckled. “Don’t worry, mate, she’s casting under topsails, just taken the wind. Now let’s see those shabs topside do a bit o’ work.”
The roll slowed and stopped, then returned, remaining at a small but definite angle. Incredibly, there was no other indication that this massive structure could now be moving through the water. Quickly the capstan and gear were secured, and Kydd fell back with profound relief.
A boatswain’s mate appeared at the top of the ladder and piped, “Haaaands to supper!”
That made Kydd keenly aware that he was fiercely hungry, but in the hubbub nobody seemed to care about the bewildered pressed men who stayed where they were, not knowing what they should do.
Others rushed down the ladders, rudely shoving them out of the way as the mess was rigged for supper. Tables hinged to the ship’s side were lowered into place between each pair of guns. Benches and sea chests became seats, lanthorns shed light over the tables.
Kydd hovered in the darkness at the centerline of the deck, watching friends greet each other, others hurrying past with mess-kettles and kids. Before long the savory smell of the evening meal washed past him. He was left alone. He watched the jolliness and familiarity with a pang, realizing that it reminded him of the fellowship and intimacy of his local tavern, and longed to be part of it.
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