Kydd

by Julian Stockwin

  Time dragged on and Kydd began to feel drowsy. He would leave decisions to the morning, after he had spoken to Bowyer.

  He was drifting off, hardly noticing the bumps and thuds on the hull, when he was jerked awake by the urgent squeal of boatswains’ calls and pandemonium everywhere. “Haaaands ahoy! All the haands! All hands on deck!”

  There was groaning, curses and lanthorns waving about in the gloom. Kydd was jostled violently in the confusion. He tried to make sense of what was going on, and grabbed the arm of a boatswain’s mate.

  “Haven’t you heard, mate? Captain’s returned aboard sudden-like, and it’s the French — they’re out! The Frogs are at sea!”

  “What the stinkin’ hell are yer doin’ still here?” Elkins pulled Kydd round to face him. “Yer station for unmoorin’ ship is the main sheets — geddup there!” He knocked Kydd away from him and stormed about in the chaos, looking for the men of his division.

  It was bedlam on the night-black lower deck, its hellish gloom lit fitfully by lanthorns — a struggling mass of men, white eyes rolling in the shadows, the occasional gleam of equipment. Kydd’s heart thudded. In a matter of hours he might be fighting for his life out there, somewhere. His mind flooded with images in which he could see himself cut down by maddened Frenchmen as they swarmed aboard after a fierce battle. He gulped and mounted the ladders for the upper deck.

  On deck, the darkness was lifting, slowly, reluctantly. A dank, cold dawn began the day.

  The decks themselves were unrecognizable — braces, sheets and halliards were off their belaying pins and led out along the decks for easy running. The upper yards were alive with men. Urgent shouts shattered the dawn.

  Along the somber line of warships there was a similar bustle and lights began to appear all along the shore.

  Bowyer was already there, but did not answer Kydd’s greeting, shoving a rope into his hand. “Clap on ter that and don’t move from there.”

  The landmen were pushed into place, their slow incomprehension maddening the petty officers, who used their starters liberally on backs and shoulders, while the seamen moved far above them — on the tops, out along the yards and to the end of the jibboom.

  The pace slowed, and Kydd saw a coalescing of groups about the officers. Tewsley paced deliberately, accompanied by Elkins, whose face wore a look of dedicated ferocity.

  “Haaands to the braces!”

  One by one, the massive lower yards were altered from their perfect cross-ship position to a starboard-farthest-forward angle, the better to catch the cold, steady breeze from the northwest.

  On the fo’c’sle Kydd could see the men crowded around the anchor tackle, although he could not see what they were about. He knew that deep below him at that moment the capstan would be manned by every hand left over from duties on deck, and he was grateful to have his work out in the open.

  The bustle subsided, and Kydd ventured a glance at Bowyer. He was looking up to the men waiting on the yards, and sniffing about for the precise direction of the wind.

  He noticed Kydd and said quietly, “Easy enough — she’ll cast under topsails to larb’d, ’n’ then out going large. He shouldn’t have anythin’ to worry of.”

  Bowyer was subdued; Kydd realized that he was probably thinking of the woman he was leaving. “Joe, d’you think there’ll be a battle?”

  “Mebbe, and then again mebbe not. Who knows?” Bowyer looked away, and down to the rope he held. He let it drop and walked to the side of the ship facing Portsmouth and did something with a coiled line. There seemed no point in following.

  “Grapple that buoy, damn it!” came faintly from forward, followed by a triumphant, “Man the cat! Walk away with it, you lead bellies!”

  From the quarterdeck echoed a booming shout. “Make sail there! Lead along topsail sheets and halliards. Lay out and loose!”

  Kydd saw sail suddenly blossom from the topsail yards. The men on deck worked furiously at the tacks and sheets.

  “Lay aft the braces, you lubbers — larboard head, starboard main, and larboard your cro’jick!”

  From having her head so steadfastly into the wind, tethered by her anchor, Duke William began to move ever so slightly astern. With counter-bracing on the fore, her bow paid off to leeward, faster and faster.

  “Haul taut! Brace abox!”

  Kydd was working too hard to watch, not really understanding what he was doing but determined to give it his best. The wind, more brisk than he remembered, had a salt tang to it.

  “Starboard head braces! Brace around those headyards!”

  There was a distinct lurch as the headsails took up at precisely the time Duke William ceased her sternward motion. Having curved around to take the northwester on her starboard cheeks, she now paused; the big courses were sheeted in and she straightened for the run south to St. Helens.

  Portsmouth now lay astern, the little cluster of dwellings, tap-houses and Tudor forts dwindling into an anonymous blur. Kydd found that he had been too busy to think of the forlorn tiny scatter of women who were all that remained of those still hoping against hope at the Sally Port. They would know now that the only way they would see their menfolk would be in their dreaming.

  Astern also was the fat bulk of the ninety-eight-gun Tiberius smoothly following in their wake, the whiteness of her new sails evidence of her recent docking. Ahead was Royal Albion, her stern galleries glittering before the salt stains of the open sea could dull them. A pair of frigates was even farther ahead, under a full press of sail, drawing away visibly on a course that would take them ranging far ahead out to sea.

  The low dark green and black of the Isle of Wight slid by in the early morning, the busy little waves hustling inshore toward the far-off port, which Kydd knew would be waking to another dawn, another working day. He hoped that his duties would keep him on deck. He felt both exhilaration and fear; the altered perceptions that come from leaving land and committing body and spirit to the sea. In one sense he yearned for the certainties of life on land, the regularities that made up the day, the steady work and sleep, the warmth of being part of a wider community. But he was aware as well that, alone of his family, he was going to see great times, be part of a world event. Deep within he felt his spirit respond to the challenge — the young wig-maker of Guildford was fading into the past.

  They passed St. Helens and shaped course more westerly for the Channel. Portsmouth finally slipped out of sight behind the Foreland and they steadily forged ahead down the coast for Ventnor and the last of the land. The breeze freshened and at nine knots Duke William was sailing about as fast as she ever would. The sea hissed along her sides at an astonishing rate. Kydd doubted that even a horse at a fast trot would find it possible to keep up.

  They reached St. Catherine’s Point, and beyond the prominence ahead in grand fashion Royal Albion reared up, then fell in a broad swash of white. Then it was their turn, the first sea sent in earnest by the broad Atlantic, sending their bow with its great jibboom spearing up to the sky, then to crash down in a stomach-stopping smother of foam.

  “Aye, see how she curtsies to Neptune when she reaches his kingdom,” Bowyer said, smiling.

  Sails bellied out and hardened as the regular winds of the open sea predominated. In place of the fluky, changeable airs of inshore there was a steadiness, an assertion of the primacy of sea over land.

  Kydd’s exhilaration began to ebb. The familiar outline of hills, fields and towns was now an anonymous green and black line becoming more insignificant each time he looked. To a countryman like him it was deeply disturbing to relate only to a wilderness of water, with nothing that could remotely be termed a fixed object.

  The ship was now very much alive. She rose and fell with vigor to the waves, forcing Kydd to move from one handhold to another, too afraid to trust his feet. Bowyer didn’t even notice, securing the lines into seamanlike hanks at the belaying pins, his movements sure and precise. “Fair wind at the moment — should make soundings in a day or so if there�
��s no more westing in it,” he said, after a considered look at the ragged sky.

  “And then we’ll face up with the French — the enemy?” Kydd tried not to sound fearful.

  “The Mongseers? No, mate, with this wind they’re away off out of it,” Bowyer said. “Won’t come up against them till we weather Ushant, ’n’ then only if they wants to come our way.” He smiled briefly. “They may be out, but it won’t be this way they’re coming. Off to the Caribbee or somewhere, my guess. Anyhow, our job’s to put a stopper on any Frog that wants to get to sea from now on.”

  Kydd hung on as he took this in. So there would be no battle soon — he didn’t question Bowyer’s judgment. He looked up at the masts. Now clothed with sails, they gave an impression of a certain clean beauty and grim purpose. He tried a few paces and hung on. There was definitely a rhythm: as he watched, the line of the deck forward lifted, hung and settled, and lifted again. He tried a few more steps and looked back at Bowyer, who grinned at him. Boldly he crossed the deck to the windward side and grabbed a shroud, the wind in his teeth. Playfully, the wind plucked his hat and sent it spinning over the deck and out to leeward.

  “Don’t worry, cuffin, I’ll find you another — but promise me next time you rigs yer chin-stay when you’re on deck,” Bowyer said.

  There was never a definite time. Never an exact defining instant at which England finally vanished. One moment the far line of the land was there, only just, and the next time Kydd remembered to look, there was nothing but a horizon innocent of anything but the rimming seascape. It should have been a special moment, leaving his native country astern, but he only felt a curious separation, one in which England carried on with its own cares, duties and pleasures down one line of existence, while Kydd and his watery world went another.

  At breakfast on the lower deck Kydd kept quiet. There was just too much to take in. Between decks there were new sounds: creaks, groans and random cracks that gradually resolved into a regular sequence — a long-drawn-out deep-throated shudder, followed by a volley of creaks, before a descending sigh of minor sounds. It was also a strange feeling ’tween-decks when there was no horizon visible to act as cue; body perceptions said that the entire structure was rearing up and plunging down, but the eyes just as firmly insisted that everything was solidly unmoving.

  No sooner had they completed breakfast than Kydd was startled by the sound of a drum, loud in the confined space of the lower deck. Cutting through the hubbub in rhythmic rolls, its martial sound volleyed irresistibly, an urgent beating, on and on. Instantly there was turmoil. It was clear that this was nothing ordinary — the concentrated look on men’s faces told him that. With thumping heart it dawned on him that this must be the call to arms, a clarion call to duty. If this was battle he could not be more unready. His anxiety turned to fear that he would let his shipmates down, that by his act others would suffer. He stumbled through the welter of activity.

  “Bear a fist, then, you useless lubber!” yelled an unknown figure, passing over a detached mess table.

  He joined the stream of men striking the tables, mess traps and all their homely articles into the hold below.

  The guns were being readied. Where before they had been mere background features of the living spaces, much the same as the old oak sideboard in the living room in Guildford, now they seemed to come alive, to crouch like beasts in Kydd’s sharpened imagination.

  “Kydd — is that you?” A young lieutenant with a frown looked at him.

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Number-three gun, then,” the lieutenant said irritably, more interested in his piece of paper. He moved on.

  Kydd moved smartly to the gun indicated. It seemed enormous. Around it was a crowd of men casting it loose and taking up positions. The gun captain acknowledged his presence with a surly nod, busy checking his equipment.

  The lower deck was crowded with men, even though only one side of guns was in operation, on the weather, and therefore higher, side. With shrill squeals gunport lids were raised on pulleys, allowing natural light to flood in and giving a close view of the sea outside. It suddenly dawned on Kydd why the inside of the ports and timbers around the guns were

  painted in so bright a scarlet. The wind streamed straight in through the gunports, making him shiver but bringing a welcome clean sea tang. He wondered what else might be out there, and ducked down to look out.

  The sea, bright after the gloom, slid past only a few feet down, individual flecks and flurries in perfect clarity. But of the enemy there was nothing, just endless marching waves, looking much closer and more alive than on deck. It was surprising to feel the calming effect of the horizon. He had made his first vital discovery of the sea: that in a world where every single thing seemed to be in motion, here was something that was fixed and solid, could be relied on — the line of the horizon. Straightening, he dared a look at the man next to him. He was thin and ugly, and wore a beaver hat as shapeless as it was characterful.

  The man glanced around and caught Kydd staring at him. He was very ugly, his face foreshortened like a monkey, the forehead disappearing too quickly into a stubble of hair. “You lookin’ for a souse in the chops, cock?” he croaked, in a grog-ravaged voice.

  Kydd mumbled something and tried to give his attention to his opposite number, an Iberian by appearance. The man saw him, but looked away in contempt, probably because he was a landman.

  The gun captain straightened, and held up his arm. The man was all muscle, and with his striped shirt and red bandanna closely tied over his hair, resembled a pirate. His eyes were hard and took in everything.

  “Silence! Silence, fore and aft!” It was the young lieutenant, shrill with anxiety, pacing down the midline of the ship. “The Captain desires me to inform you all that it is his intention to exercise the great guns every morning without fail.”

  So much for the enemy and mortal combat, thought Kydd, not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.

  It seemed the officer did not know whether to keep his black-japanned speaking trumpet behind his back or ready in front of him. “We have the heaviest guns in the ship, and therefore the most decisive weapons in battle. If we can hit harder, faster, then we will win. Otherwise we will lose. So we are going to practice and practice until we are good enough — and then we practice some more until we are the best. Mark my words, any man who hangs back will be dealt with instantly.”

  The seamen waiting by their guns watched him tight-faced or warily as their experience told them.

  “Gun captains, prove crews in your own time! Carry on.”

  The man in the red bandanna spat on his hands. “Me name’s Stirk.” He fixed them with his fierce eyes. “Now, there’s them what don’t know me methods yet” — he took in several of them with his glance —“and there’s them what do. Ain’t that right, Doggo?”

  He was addressing the ugly man next to Kydd, who grinned a gaptoothed acknowledgment. “Yer has yer ways, is the right of it, Toby.”

  “Then let’s get to it. Slow time it is. Cast loose, Jewkes.”

  The gun was lashed by its muzzle into docile obedience like an ox by its nose. Jewkes, a nervous, slightly built man, pulled himself astride it and cast off the lashing, which he coiled neatly on the eyebolt.

  “Watch yer arse,” another said, and paid out the side tackles in long fakes, while others passed over the implements of gunnery — crow, handspike, sponge.

  “Level guns!”

  Once the quoins were slammed in place, the cocked-up appearance of the massive piece took on a more straight-eyed and businesslike appearance.

  “Tompion!”

  The muzzle gaped open.

  Stirk stood back and looked appraisingly at them all. “Right, let’s ’ave a few changes. Bull, I want you on the crow — yeah, take it, then. Pedro, we’ll ’ave you on the rammer this time.”

  A barrel-chested man with a near bald head pushed out and grabbed the crow from unresisting hands. The Iberian sauntered across to claim
a long stave tipped with a cup-shaped piece of wood. Tension was reflected in his glittering dark eyes.

  “Doggo, I want you to lead on the left tackle, ’n’ you, whassername, join ’im.”

  Kydd moved across and found himself in a line of men at the tackle fall. He placed himself unobtrusively at the end.

  Stirk considered. “Well, that’ll do fer now. Remember, you doesn’t pull yer weight, I comes down on yer hard, as yez know.” He took his position at the breech of the gun. “Now, ye know me method — we gets it straight afore we gets it fast. So we go through the drill, b’ order. Stand by!” He glared at his gun crew one by one. “Run out th’ gun!”

  While those with implements watched, Kydd and the others tugged at the tackle. The monster gun sullenly ground a foot or two toward the port. On this point of sailing the deck was canted, so the work was all uphill.

  “Stap me,” marveled Stirk, “but you’re a useless pawky lot! Let’s ’ave some real ’eavy in it, then.”

  The gun moved out faster, but Kydd was dismayed at the effort required to shift the three tons of cold iron.

  “That’s better! Now, come on, gemmun, remember yer drill! Youse — clear the breechin’ from the truck. You ’n’ you fakes out the tackle falls nice ’n’ neat. Yer don’t want me remindin’ yer all the time, now, do yer? So — prime! We doesn’t take action here. Point yer gun!”

  He looked at Jewkes, standing by nervously. “Look, mate,” he said, “keep yer trainin’ tackle close up-bight yer fall after she fires, ’cos side tackles’ll be runnin’ out quick ’n’ they don’t want it foulin’. Handspike. I want youse right here ’n’ watchin’ me all the time — t’ain’t no good admirin’ the view. Now the piece is ready to fire. Hey! Put that gun tackle down, you, Kydd! Gun goes orf, it’ll fly out ’n’ take you with it!”