Kydd followed him down to the lanthorn-lit forward end of the main deck. It was crowded with men, gathered closely around a quartermaster’s mate standing just abaft the foremast, and next to a small pile of clothing and other gear. Lieutenant Tewsley was there, hat held informally in his hand and his seamed face somber.
Bowyer coughed self-consciously. “This is what we do for them what goes over the standin’ part of the foresheet.”
At Kydd’s look of incomprehension he said, “That is to say, them which tops their boom dies at sea — like Ollie Higgins did this forenoon off the mainyard.”
Kydd felt a stab of guilt at the stark memory of the man cartwheeling into the sea, knowing that it had been buried in the avalanche of images and experiences to which he had been subjected since.
Bowyer continued, in a low voice, “We gets into Spithead tomorrow, so we holds an auction on his clobber now. If we c’n find a little silver for ’is widow, well, it’s somethin’.”
The auction proceeded, low shouts as bids were cast and clothing fingered in quiet remembrance. Noticing Bowyer involved in the bidding, Kydd wondered what to do. There were only pennies left of what he had had in his pocket when pressed, and only volunteers received the bounty.
“’Ere you are, Tom,” Bowyer said, and passed over a well-worn sea-man’s knife and sheath. “Ollie was a topman, and you can trust ’is steel to be the best.” Kydd hesitated. “Go on, mate, take it — he won’t be needin’ it now, and he’d be happy it’s still goin’ to do its dooty.”
Kydd’s helpless fumbling at his pocket made Bowyer touch his arm. “Don’t worry about that, mate. You’ll find nobody cares about us — we ’as to look to ourselves. Yer’ll not see a penny o’ yer pay for half a year or more, so we’ll square yardarms some other time.”
Self-consciously, Kydd undid his broad belt and strapped on the knife, settling the sheath into place on the flat of his right buttock as Bowyer had his.
Bowyer paid over several more silver coins and was handed a crackling bundle of olive-gray skins. “This is what yer’ll reckon best, Tom, out on the yard in a winter nor’easter — an honest sealskin warmer under your jacket. Keeps out the cold like a hero.”
Outside the purser’s store on the orlop Kydd tried again. “Look, Joe, you don’t have to —”
“Leave it be, Tom!” Bowyer said, gruffly.
Kydd drew his issue hammocks and meager bedding. Bowyer fingered it doubtfully. “Listen, mate, only way yer goin’ to get a good kip in a hammacoe is if I tells yer how. So let’s be at it — we’re on watch right after hammocks are piped down. I’ll give yer a hand.” Bowyer clicked his tongue at the haphazard bundle of stiff new canvas and bedclothing and deftly rolled them tightly together, securing them with half hitches. He threw the result over his shoulder. Thrusting his way aft, he found Kydd’s numbered position. “You’ll be slingin’ yer ’mick here, being as you’re afterguard. Part-of-ship stays together so’s yer can be found in the dark for a shake — yer oppo’s alongside yer, o’ course.”
Seeing Kydd’s look, he explained, “The man who does the same job as you but in t’other watch.”
Kydd nodded, but he was overwhelmed. An unbelievable number of men were moving about in the dim lower gundeck, all busily slinging hammocks, and it seemed inconceivable that they could fit into so limited a space.
With the ease of long practice, Bowyer secured one rope to a batten fastened on the deck beams overhead. “Watch this, Tom — can’t show yer twice, have me own ’mick to sling.” He teased out the parallel knittle lines at the ends of the hammock, then extended the canvas, taking the opposite end to another batten. “Guess you’ll want to try it low, first up,” Bowyer murmured, and Kydd could see that there was a method in the madness about him. To maximize space, adjacent hammocks were slung clear, either high or low. Bowyer had eased the lines so that Kydd would be in the lowest of them.
The hammocks also overlapped to the canvas in a fore and aft direction. It became clear that this had an additional benefit when Bowyer invited Kydd to climb into his hammock for the first time.
The seasoned sailor chuckled at the inevitable result — like a skittish horse, the hammock skipped out of reach every time Kydd lifted a leg to lever himself in, quickly finding himself dumped smartly on deck the other side.
“Yer gets aboard only like this,” Bowyer said, and with one lithe movement, he grasped in both hands an overlapping hammock clew overhead, and this taking his weight, his first leg positioned the hammock for the other leg to thump in alongside.
Reversing the movement, Bowyer dropped to the deck. “Now you, mate.”
CHAPTER 3
* * *
In the light night winds, sailing easily full and bye on the starboard tack, there was little for the watch on deck to do. Keyed up to expect hours of toil, Kydd was surprised to find how relaxed the watch before midnight could be. After an initial fuss at the braces, tacks and sheets, the sails were finally trimmed to the satisfaction of Warren, the officer of the watch, who then reluctantly stood the men down, save those about the binnacle.
One thing, however, Kydd found disconcerting. Where the mess decks were gloomy, lanthorn-lit caverns, on deck it was positively tomb-like. A low overcast obscured the night sky and his eyes strained in the winter night to distinguish main features, let alone the dozens of ropes, ringbolts and sharp edges that lay invisibly in wait. It was quite impossible to make out the faces of the others. They were phantoms in the darkness: their voices had the curious quality of being overloud when close, and too distant when farther away. Only moving shadows against the dim whiteness of the deck disclosed their presence.
Kydd stayed close to Bowyer as they went down the ladder to the main deck. There, in the waist of the ship, they would be on instant call, but could shelter from the spray and keen wind. It didn’t escape Kydd that they would also be out of sight of Warren and the others on the quarterdeck. They hunkered down, backs to the bulwark, the old hands among them coming together in companionable groups to converse in low tones and while away the watch. Kydd sat on the periphery of Bowyer’s group, content to listen.
The hiss of the ship’s wash out in the darkness was hypnotic. Sitting on the deck, leaning against a gun carriage in the anonymity of the night, Kydd felt a creeping unreality, that stage of tiredness when a floating light-headedness bears the spirit on in a timeless, wondering void.
Disembodied voices rose and fell. His mind drifted, but returned to hear what they were saying.
“No, mate — I saw ’im! Didn’t do a bloody thing, just watched while Ollie went over the side. Did nothing ’cept stare, the useless ninny.”
“Yeah, you saw him, but he was givin’ a chance fer Lockwood to do somethin’ for himself. He had the deck, didn’t he?” Kydd recognized Bowyer’s troubled tones.
“It won’t fadge, Joe,” someone replied. “The Captain ’as the ship. There’s no buts in it. It’s his dooty to look after the people, same’s it’s our dooty to look after the ship.”
“Now, what I don’t like is this. When it comes to a situation, it’s ‘sharp’s the word and quick’s the motion’ but he just stood there! Yes, sir, just froze right up!”
“So we gets a dirty great Frenchie, yardarm to yardarm, offerin’ to ventilate our sides — ain’t no time to be stoppin’ and starin’.”
“I seen a scrovy like that!” a voice chirruped from out of the dark.
“Oh, yeah?”
“Did so too. He was touched, that’s what he was, used t’ stare like that — into his vittles, out the window, nobody could speak to him. Right scareful, it was.”
“What happened to him, then?”
“Well, one evenin’ he fell down in the pothouse, kickin’ ’n’ twisting ’n’ scarin’ the daylights out of us all until they took him off ter the bed-lam.”
Kydd snorted into the gloom. “Bloody rot! You’re talkin’ of the falling sickness. Poor juggins to have you as his friend. It’s a kind of
fit. An’ what I saw this afternoon wasn’t the fallin’ sickness.”
Another voice challenged, nearer. “So what was it, Mr. Sawbones?”
Conscious that he had attracted attention to himself, Kydd could only answer lamely, “Well, it wasn’t, that’s all.”
The exchange drifted into an inconclusive silence.
The edge of an unseen sail fluttered sharply and quietened, and an occasional muffled crunch of waves came from forward, in time with a slight pitch of the bows. Kydd shifted his position. He heard Bowyer from farther away: “Can’t blame the skipper, Lofty. He’s new, ’n’ he’s had to take over the barky from Halifax without the smell of a dockin’, poor lady.”
“That’s all gammon, ’n’ you know it, Joe.”
“No — what I’m a-saying is that, as bloody usual, in this war we’ve been caught all aback ’n’ all in a pelt — skipper’s got to get the ship out to meet the Frogs ’n’ ’e’s cuttin’ corners.”
The man grunted loudly. “Pig-shite! You always were simple, Joe. What we ’ave is a Jonah! Seen ’em before. They doesn’t know it even but they ’as the mark! An’ it’s evil luck that comes aboard any hooker what ships a Jonah, as well you know, mate.”
The murmurs died away, and Kydd shivered at the turn in the conversation. He took refuge in the continual run of shipboard noises — the ceaseless background of anonymous sounds that assured him his new world was continuing as usual.
There were a few coughs before a deep voice announced, “When we makes Spithead tomorrer, I’m goin’ no farther than yon Keppel’s Head — get me a good sea coal fire ahead, a muzzler of stingo under m’ lee and I’ll not see daylight until we fronts back aboard.”
“Stow that!” someone whooped. “I’ve got a year’s pay says there’s no fubsy wench in Portsmouth Point’s goin’ unsatisfied while I’ve got the legs to get me ashore.”
The babble of voices was broken by one of the older men. “Presumin’ we get to step off.”
“Course we will! On the North Ameriky station for near two years — stands to reason we dock first to set the old girl to rights afore we join the Fleet. Gonna take at least half a year — we’re forty years old, mate, and you know she spits oakum in any sort of sea!”
“Yeah, that’s right! We had thirteen months ashore off of Billy Ruffian in ’eighty-eight, an’ she was in better shape than we by a long haul.”
“Jus’ let me get alongside my Polly — she’s been a-waitin’ for me ’n’ my tackle since St. Geoffrey’s Day.”
The excited chatter ebbed and flowed around Kydd, until it crossed his mind that if the others went ashore, then there might be a chance for him to slip away. A few days’ tramp along the London Road and he’d be back, God be praised, in the rural tranquillity of Guildford. Distant bells sounded from forward. A hand on his arm broke into these happy thoughts. “Stir yerself, Tom. Now we can get our heads down until mornin’,” said Bowyer.
Their way lit by a lanthorn carried by a ship’s corporal, they passed down to the lower deck. Shadowy figures, the last of the larbowlines, hurried past.
After the cold dankness of the open air, the heat and fug of the broad space, full of slowly swaying hammocks, was prodigious. The air was thick with the musty odor of many men in a confined space and the creeping fetor of bilge smells. With fatigue closing in on him in waves, Kydd stumbled over to his hammock. Stripping off his outer clothes, he followed the example of the others and rolled them into a pillow. He then addressed himself to the task of getting in. It took only two tries before he was aboard, agreeably enfolded by the canvas sides. Some cautious wriggles and he found that the hammock was remarkably stable and, in fact, astonishingly comfortable. The meager “mattress” conformed to his shape and the single coarse blanket was hardly needed, with the heat of so much humanity.
Lying there, too exhausted to sleep, he let his eyes wander restlessly over the scene — the loom of hammocks all around, the dark closeness of the deckhead above and the last few moving figures. Then the lanthorns were removed, and he was left alone with his thoughts in utter blackness.
There was an air of excitement and anticipation as the far-off soft green and gray-black of the land resolved into the Isle of Wight, and Portsmouth, with its sheltered naval anchorage of Spithead. The weather had held, and there was nothing to disturb the winter-bright pearlescence in sea and sky. Duke William glided in under all plain sail toward the long dark smudge ahead that was the Fleet at anchor.
A wearisome forenoon had been spent on the ship’s appearance, for it was well known that Admiral Howe was no friend to the indolent. Besides a thorough holystone fore and aft, salt-stained sides were sluiced with fresh water, brightwork brought to a thorough gleam and the seadulled colors around the beakhead and figurehead touched up to their usual striking splendor.
Around the catted bower anchors and aloft, men had been working since daybreak. It was clear from the short tempers on the quarterdeck that more than appearances would shortly be judged.
Along the line of the deck the gunner’s party were busy at the twelve-pounders with wadhook and shot ladle, removing the live charge and shot from each new-blacked gun. At sea a ship had to be ready to meet any enemy appearing unexpectedly with immediate fire. Now the guns would carry nothing more lethal than a blank saluting cartridge.
The hawse bucklers were removed from the eyes in the bows, the massive twenty-five-inch cable roused out from the tiers below and passed through them before being secured to the bower anchor. Finally the sea lashings were removed, leaving the anchor suspended only by a single stopper. Amidships, the barge and cutter were readied for lowering, the barge crew going below to shift into their smart gear. Kydd noticed activity on the poop deck around the flag locker. Bright bunting, vivid on the gray day, was carefully checked, with the ensign and jack laid out ready for the staff.
Duke William neared the land, which now took on more detail. Kydd marveled at the number of ships about — tiny tan and white specks of sails up and down the coast as far as he could see: merchantmen, passenger craft and cumbersome naval auxiliaries. But dominating all, stretching over a mile of sea, there were at least a score of great ships-of-the-line at anchor, all arrogance and lofty grace. Closer still, it was possible to note the details of the small craft ceaselessly moving against the low-lying shoreline and the medieval white stone ramparts. At the narrow entrance of the harbor, he saw an untidy clutter of small, rickety buildings perching close by.
It soon became apparent that they were making for the outer end of the cluster of moored ships.
“All hands, bring ship to anchor!”
Hardly a soul stirred, long since standing to at their posts. A rope thrust into his hands, Kydd snatched a glance aft at the small group on the quarterdeck.
The Captain, easily recognized with his large gold-laced cocked hat and imperious bearing, stood in the center of the deck. Next to him was Tyrell’s restless stumpy form, with Garrett close behind. Within earshot, but at a respectful distance, were the Master in his plain black coat and a group of midshipmen. Lieutenant Tewsley watched the quarterdeck while Elkins kept his eyes on Tewsley and Bowyer watched Elkins.
Kydd held the lee main topgallant clewline as though his life depended on it and waited for whatever would come.
“Stand by to take in topgallants — man topgallant clewlines, fore and main clewgarnets and buntlines!”
Bowyer made no move; neither therefore did Kydd.
“Haul taut! In topgallants — up foresail, up mainsail!”
Bowyer threw off his turns and went to it furiously, frantically imitated by Kydd, bringing in the rope hand over hand, the wind spilling thunderously from the big sail above them.
Duke William slowed perceptibly, progressing parallel to the shoreline under topsails and staysails. Kydd could not keep his eyes from the scene — so many huge vessels, so much power and threat.
Bowyer moved over to the clewline and Kydd followed. “Which is the Admiral’s
ship?” he asked.
Bowyer’s hands on the rope, he cocked his head toward the largest. “Queen Charlotte, a hundred guns — Chatham built, same’s Victory, but much newer.” His eyes rested dispassionately on the big ship. “But not ever as sweet a sailer on a bowline as that old lady.”
Silently they neared the anchorage, but even to Kydd’s eye, they appeared to be passing well to seaward of the dense gathering of ships. His not to reason why, he waited, grateful for the warmth generated by his recent exertions.
Caldwell raised his speaking trumpet. “Helm a-lee! Topsail clew-jiggers, buntlines! Man jib downhaul!” The ship exploded into action, almost the entire company energetically at some task. Kydd tensed, noticing that the vessel was ponderously beginning a turn toward the anchored Fleet and incidentally the shore.
“Haul taut! Let go topsail sheets, topbowlines! Clew up!”
The turn grew faster, and Kydd’s quick glance aft took in the men at the wheel energetically spinning it to counteract the swing. It appeared that they were heading straight for the last three vessels in line.
“Down jib! Settle away the topsail halliards — square away there!”
The previously taut, finely trimmed sails were now baggy masses pressing against the forward sides of the mast, for as Kydd could see, they had turned directly into the wind, meaning to slow the ship in her onward course toward the anchored vessels.
Then the wind dropped, fluky and unreliable, and with reduced retarding effect on the fore part of her sails, Duke William glided on unimpeded.
Kydd looked at Bowyer beside him, who was watching the approach with rapt attention, his face hardening. Kydd felt a sudden stab of fear. “Joe — Joe, what is it?”
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