Kydd

by Julian Stockwin

  “Er, how!”

  “Ni hau!” the man replied.

  “Wong Hey Chee, able seaman and right heathen but a good hand aloft when it comes on to blow.” Bowyer’s introduction did nothing to affect Wong’s steady stare. “Was a strong man in a circus, was Wong,” Bowyer continued admiringly.

  Kydd shifted his gaze to the last man, opposite Claggett.

  The man gave him a civil nod, but remained wordless. He had a sensitive face, which bore the unmistakable mark of intelligence. His eyes were dark and unsettling.

  “Yes — an’ that’s Renzi,” Bowyer said. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Says nothing, keeps to himself. A rum cove, if you asks me. I’d leave him be, mate, bit quick on the trigger ’e can be.”

  Kydd looked back at Renzi and realized what was bothering him. Although clearly at home in a comfortable but plain seaman’s rig, the man did not have the open, trusting manner of a sailor. Neither did he have the close-gathered tarry queue of the older seaman, or the long side-whiskers and wild hair of the younger. His almost blue-black hair was as short as a monk’s. He was further taken aback when he realized that the man’s gaze could best be termed a glare. He wondered if he had offended in some way.

  His thoughts were interrupted by shouts of appreciation greeting the arrival of the grog monkey, a well-used, two-eared wooden kid. It was thumped on the table in front of Claggett, who lost no time in sending an odd assortment of pots and tankards, well filled, back to their expectant owners.

  “That’s yourn, then, Kydd.” He slid over a brassbound wooden drinking vessel. Kydd lifted it. It was old-fashioned, the size and shape favored by thirsty countryfolk, but where they would fill it with cider or beer, the sweetness of rum eddied up to him. He was amazed — there was well over a pint of the liquid.

  “Here’s to you, Tom lad,” Bowyer said, and upended his own pot.

  Kydd felt an unexpected flush of pleasure at the use of his forename. “And Mr. Garrett — damn his whistle,” he replied, lifting his tankard in salute. The taste had an unexpected coolness.

  Bowyer’s eyes creased. “Three-water grog, this is only. You’ll be lucky ter get grog twice a week in Royal Billy — you’re catching on, mate!”

  They both drank deeply. The liquor spread warmth through Kydd’s vitals and he could feel the anxiety draining from him. A smile broke through.

  “That’s the ticket! Can be a hard life, a sailor’s, but there are, who shall say, the compensations!”

  Kydd drank again and, amid the animated ebb and flow of talk, studied his shipmates once more. Wong was listening impassively to Whaley describing the hardships of a voyage to Esbjerg, while Claggett was speaking softly to a man sitting next to him.

  Kydd lifted his pot to drink, but as it tilted he saw over the rim that Renzi’s glowering, intense eyes were on him. Disconcerted, he gave a weak smile and took a long pull at his grog. The eyes were still on him, and he noticed the unusual depth of the lines incised at each side of Renzi’s mouth.

  “Where’s that useless Doud? We’ll die of hunger else,” Howell demanded. The others ignored him.

  “Hey-ho, mates, and it’s pease pudding and Irish horse!” A wiry, perky young man arrived and swung a pair of wooden kids under the end of the table.

  “About time, damn you for a shab!” Howell’s sneer in no way discommoded Doud, whose broad grin seemed to light up the entire mess.

  “Come on, Ned, we’re near gutfoundered,” said Whaley, rubbing his hands in anticipation. The lids came off the food, and the bread barge was filled and placed on the table. Mess traps were brought down from their racks and the meal could begin.

  After his previous experience Kydd had no expectations. On his plate the pease pudding was gray-green, flecked with darker spots, and clearly thickened with some other substance. The beef was unrecognizable, gray and gristly. Kydd couldn’t hide his disgust at the taste.

  Bowyer saw his expression and gave a mirthless chuckle. “That there’s fresh beef, Tom. Wait till we’re at sea awhile — the salt horse’ll make you yearn after this’n!”

  He slid the bread barge across to Kydd. Lying disconsolate on a mess of ship’s biscuit were the stale remnants of the “soft tommy” taken aboard in Sheerness.

  Kydd passed on the bread and gingerly took some hard tack. He fastened his teeth on the crude biscuit, but could make no impression.

  “Not like that, mate,” Bowyer said. “Like this!” Cupping the biscuit in his palm, he brought his opposite elbow sharply down on it and revealed the fragments resulting. “This is yer hard tack, lad. We calls it bread at sea — best you learns a taste for it.”

  As they ate, Kydd was struck by the small concessions necessary because of the confined space: the wooden plates were square rather than round and therefore gave optimum area for holding food. Eating movements were curiously neat and careful: no cutlery waved in the air, and elbows seemed fixed to the side of the body. It was in quite a degree of contrast to the spreading coarseness of the town ordinary where tradesmen would take their cheap victuals together.

  The last of his grog made the food more palatable, and when he had finished, Kydd let his eyes wander out of the pool of lanthorn light to the other mess tables, each a similar haven of sociability.

  He remembered his piece of paper. “Joe, what does all this mean?” he said, passing over his watch and station details.

  “Let’s see.” Bowyer studied the paper in the dim light. “It says here you’re in the first part of the starboard watch — with me, mate. And your part of ship is afterguard, so you report there to Mr. Tewsley for your place o’ duty.” He paused and looked affectionately at the others. “And the other is the number of yer mess. You’re messmates with us here now, and on the purser’s books for vittlin’ and grog under that number. Not that you’ll get fair do’s from Mansel, that bloody Nipcheese.” Bowyer smiled viciously. “Yeah — those duds you’ve just got, you’ll be working them off a guinea t’ the poun’ for six months yet. And with a purser’s pound at fourteen ounces you’ll not be overfed, mate.”

  He looked again at the paper. “You’re in Mr. Tewsley’s division, o’ course, so yer accountable to him to be smart ’n’ togged out in proper rig, and once yer’ve got yer hammock, it says here you’ll be getting your head down right aft on this deck. Show yer where at pipe-down tonight.” He returned the paper. “That’s all ye need to know fer now. All this other lot are yer stations — where yer have to be when we go ‘hands ter unmoor ship,’ ‘send down topmast’ an’ that. You’ll get a chance to take it all aboard when we exercises.”

  Kydd needed more. “What’s this about a gun, then?”

  “That’s your post at quarters. We get ourselves into an action, you go to number-three gun lower deck” — he pointed to it —“but I doubts we’ll get much o’ that unless the Frogs want ter be beat again.” Taking another pull at his grog, Bowyer grinned.

  But Kydd wasn’t about to let go. “When do I have t’ climb the mast, Joe?”

  Bowyer’s laugh stilled the table’s conversation for a moment. He leaned forward. “Tom, me old shipmate, you’re a landman. That means nobody expects you to do anything more’n pull on a rope and swab the uppers all day. Me, I’m an able seaman, I c’n hand, reef and steer, so we gets to go aloft, you don’t.” Finishing his grog, he looked across at Kydd, his guileless gray eyes, clubbed pigtail and sun-bleached seaman’s gear making him the picture of a deep-sea mariner. He smiled good-humoredly. “That’s not ter say you’ll be a landman for ever. What say we take a stroll around the barky? Starbowlines are off watch this afternoon ’n’ yer could be learnin’ something.”

  They came out by the big fore hatch onto the upper deck. Up a short ladder and they were on a deck space at the foot of the foremast, beneath its sails and rigging. The wind was raw and cutting, and the odd fleck of spray driven up by the bows bit at the skin.

  “Now, Tom, this ’ere raised part is the fo’c’sle deck, an’ at the other
end of the hooker is another, and it’s the quarterdeck, and we move between the two parts by means of them there gangways each side. Gives a pleasin’ sweep o’ deck, fore ’n’ aft.”

  Kydd nodded. “So is this then the upper deck?” he asked.

  “It’s not, mate. The upper deck is the top one of all that can run continuous the whole length, so it’s the one next under us. We often calls it the main deck, and this one the spar deck, ’cos we useta keep the spare spars handy here.”

  Looking about, Kydd tried not to be awkward. “But I see one more deck above this, right at the end.”

  “Aye, that’s the poop deck — important on a smaller ship keepin’ waves from comin’ aboard when we’ve got a following sea, but all it really is are the Captain’s cabins all raised up off the quarterdeck — the coach, we calls it.” Bowyer looked meaningfully at Kydd. “You should know, Tom, that the fo’c’sle is the place fer common sailors.” He turned and looked aft. “And the quarterdeck is fer officers. If you’re not on dooty you don’t go there or —”

  “I know,” said Kydd.

  “It’s a kind of holy ground — same even fer the officers,” Bowyer said seriously, “and they ’n’ you should pay respec’ when crossin’ on to it.”

  Kydd’s quizzical look did not bring an explanation.

  Bowyer tilted his head to gaze up at the complex array of masts, yards, sails and rigging with something that closely resembled affection. “Now, lookee there, Tom. Any ship-rigged packet has three masts, fore, main and mizzen, and the names of the yards and sails are nearly the same on all of ’em, so you need learn only one. And the ropes an’ all — they take their names from the masts and sails they work, so they’re the same.”

  Kydd tried to adopt a nonchalant pose, holding on to a substantial-looking rope. Bowyer winced. “Be careful now, Tom — we scratches a backstay to get a wind, and we don’t want ter tempt fate, now, do we?” He moved on quickly. “And we rate our ships depending on ’ow many guns we ’ave. This one ’as three decks of guns, the most of any, near enough, so we’re the biggest, a line-of-battle ship.” The guns on the fo’c’sle glistened blackly with damp. “We’ve got near one hunnerd o’ the great guns, the biggest down low, where we lives. We can take on anything afloat, me lad. You pity the poor bastard that finds ’imself lookin’ down the eyes o’ these beauties.”

  The chill wind fluttered Kydd’s jacket and made him shudder. By mutual consent they passed down the ladder to the deck below. It was mainly enclosed, but open to the sky for a distance between foremast and mainmast, here crossed by thick skid beams on which the ship’s boats were stowed.

  They passed the open area to go aft. The big main hatches were here below it, a passage deep into the bowels of the vessel, and garlanded with cannon balls like lethal strands of black pearls. Past the imposing bulk of the mainmast was a final ladderway down, but across the whole width of the deck aft, their way was now barred by a darkly polished bulkhead with doors each side.

  “There’s where the Admiral lives, Tom — an’ like a prince!” Bowyer moved closer and spoke reverently. “And that’s where they plan out the battles ’n’ such.” His mouth twitched. “’Twas also the place where Jemmy Boyes and his mates went afore a court-martial. Mutiny, they called it, although it were really them only talkin’ wry — the year ’eighty-seven that was.” He looked forward, his mouth compressed to a hard line. “It were our own fore yardarm where they was turned off, God save ’em.”

  For a moment he stood, then went over to the ladder and looked down. “We have two more decks of guns below us, ’n’ then it’s the water-line.”

  “And where were we at the purser’s?”

  “Well, I didn’t say we had no more decks under the waterline,” Bowyer said. “In fact, me old gullion, we have the orlop under the lower gundeck, and that was where you was before.”

  He cracked his knuckles. “Interestin’ place, the orlop. Right forrard you get the boatswain and Chips. They both have their cabin and their stores. But turn round and right aft you get the sawbones, the purser and their stores — and not forgettin’ the midshipmen’s berth.”

  He looked down, as though the deck were transparent. “And all the middle bit is where the anchor cables are laid out in tiers, and where yer go down inside the gun magazines. Lots o’ dark, rummy places about, down in the orlop. Wouldn’t advise rovin’ about down there without yer’ve got a friend.” He swung round with a grin. “And then all that’s left below is the hold. But I guess yer know all about that — it’s where the pressed men go afore we sails. It’s where all the water and vittles are stowed, and when we clears for action all the gear gets sent down there.” Bowyer punched him on the shoulder. “So now you knows all the decks, we’ll go visit ’em!”

  There was no hanging back, and for the remainder of the watch Kydd found himself plunging after Bowyer — down ladders, along rows of huge guns, on gratings out above the sea and, in fact, to places it was impossible to believe might belong on a ship of war. A cookhouse with monstrous cauldrons simmering over an iron-hearted fire. A manger, complete with goats and chickens. A cockpit — but no cocks that Kydd could detect. And many — multitudes — of objects and places that Bowyer clearly thought important, but had no meaning to Kydd.

  They happened to be under the boats when four double strikes sounded from the belfry just above. “Know what that means, Tom? It’s ‘up spirits’ and then supper, me old griff!”

  In a whirlpool of impressions Kydd followed Bowyer down to the lower gundeck and the welcome fug of the mess. Howell looked up sourly. “You tryin’ to make Kydd a jolly Jack Tar, then, Joe?”

  “You sayin’ he shouldn’t be?” Bowyer snapped.

  “I’m sayin’ as how he don’t know what he’s a-comin’ to. He’s not bred to the sea, he’s a landlubber, don’t belong.” He became heated. “Can you see him out on the yard in a gale of wind, doin’ real sailorin’? Nah. All his days he’s gonna be on his knees and arse up with a holystone — that is, when he’s not huckin’ out the heads or swiggin’ off on the braces!” He leaned forward and told Bowyer earnestly, “’S not right fer you to fill his head with grand ideas — he’s never going to be a sailorman. Sooner he knows it, better for him.”

  Pointedly ignoring him, Bowyer took down their mess traps. “We’ve got first dog-watch straight after, so we takes a bit o’ ballast aboard now, Tom, mate!”

  It was still light on deck, showing up the swarm of small vessels around them, which were seizing the opportunity to slip down Channel with an unofficial escort of such unchallengeable might.

  Kydd followed Bowyer closely, apprehensive because this was to be his first sea watch, and gingerly joined the waiting group near the main-mast.

  “You! Yeah — the cow-handed sod with Bowyer!” Elkins’s grating shout broke into his thoughts. There was an animal ferocity in the hard face and Kydd froze. “Come here, you useless grass-combin’ bastard.” Elkins thrust his face forward. “If ever you makes a sawney o’ me afore the quarterdeck again, you’re fishmeat, cully!”

  Kydd felt defiance rising, but he kept silent, trying to withstand the assault of the man’s glare.

  Abruptly, Elkins seized his jacket savagely in both hands at the throat and pulled him to his toes. Speaking softly and slowly, but with infinite menace, he said, “A lumpin’ great lobcock like you would do well to know where he stands afore he thinks to get uppity — you scavey?”

  The hard, colorless eyes seemed to impale Kydd’s soul. The thin lips curled. “O’ course yer do, cully,” he said. “You’re a Johnny Raw, new caught, who’s goin’ to learn his place right quick — ain’t that the case?”

  He released Kydd slowly, keeping him transfixed.

  Bowyer’s troubled voice came in from behind Kydd. “No call fer that, Mr. Elkins,” he said.

  Elkins turned on him.

  “I’ll be lookin’ out for Kydd, don’t you worry, Mr. Elkins.” He grabbed Kydd’s arm and steered him back to the
mainmast. A young officer watched, frowning.

  “Don’t do to cross Elkins’s bows, shipmate,” Bowyer muttered, pretending to test the tension of a line at the bitts.

  Kydd had never backed down from anyone in his life — even the raw-boned squire’s son treated him with care. But this was another situation, filled with unknowns.

  “See there, Tom” — Bowyer was trying to engage his attention —“we’re bending on the new mizzen t’gallant.” Kydd allowed his interest to be directed to the second farthest yard upward at the mizzen. Men were spreading out along the yard, that side that he could see past the large triangular staysails soaring up between the two masts. “You’ll remember we saw Mr. Clough and his mates sewing in the tabling for the t’gallant bolt-rope?”

  Kydd recalled his curiosity as they stepped around the cross-legged men busily plying their needles. Those were no delicate darning nee dles: instead they were long and heavy, three-sided implements, which they drove through the stout canvas using a leather device strapped to their palms.

  “Clap on here, mate,” said Bowyer. “We’re sending up yer sail now to fix on to its yard.” A long sausage of canvas had made its way on deck, and an astonishing amount of rope lay in long coils next to it. “We uses the buntlines to haul it up for bending, but it being a t’gallant and all, the line is too short to come from aloft, so we bends on some extra.”

  Kydd let it all wash over him. It was beyond his powers to retain, but he was sure that Bowyer would be on hand later to explain. At the present moment he urgently needed to find his bearings and, indeed, himself.

  The watch passed quickly in a flurry of hauling, belaying and repeating this on other ropes in sequence with events, the canvas sausage making its way up the mast to its final glory as a trim, smartly set sail. Dusk was well and truly drawing in when the pealing of boatswains’ calls erupted forward. “There yer go, Tom, the Spithead nightingales are singin’. Larbowlines are on deck now, ’n’ we can go below — but first we’ve somethin’ to do, brother.”