Kydd

by Julian Stockwin

  He looked down at the deck and the sea sliding past below, so foreshortened at the height of a church steeple.

  This was how Bowyer had met his death.

  “Haul out to windward!”

  The men inclined to leeward and leaned over the yard, bracing against the footrope. Seizing one of the reef points, they heaved the sail bodily over toward Doud at the end. Kydd had no option but to follow suit. It needed all his courage to let go his hold on the yard and balance precariously forward, elbows clamping, and grab one of the points.

  “Heave, yer buggers — let’s see some tiger!”

  It took three pulls and Doud had his turns over the cleat and through the earring on the sail in its new, reefed position. Inclining the opposite way, they hauled out again, achieving the same thing on the lee yardarm. Seized at its ends, the sail’s central bulge was now slack and ready for reefing.

  Kydd glanced at the men next to him. They worked calmly, industriously, thumping the sail into folds on top of the yard; first small, then larger, pinning them in place with their chests while they leaned down to get another, fisting and slapping the milling sea-worn canvas into place.

  There was not much science in Kydd’s efforts, but at least he did not let his reef escape. It was with real satisfaction that, holding it in place with the forward reef point, he brought the other up and secured it with an eponymous reef knot.

  “Lay in, you lazy swabs!”

  He joined the others on the maintop, and met Doud with a grin that could only be described as smug.

  The carpenter pursed his lips. It wasn’t a bad leak as far as it went, but it was in an awkward place. They were standing in the carpenter’s walk, a cramped tunnel of sorts that went round the sides of the orlop, giving access to the area between wind and water in times of battle. It was an eerie sensation, to feel rather than hear the underwater gurgling rush on the outside of the hull. Kydd struggled along behind the carpenter’s mate, with a bag of heavy shipwright’s tools.

  The carpenter bent to take a closer look. His mate obligingly held the lanthorn lower, into the black recesses behind a hanging knee. Water glistened against the blackened timbers of the ship’s side.

  “Maul,” the carpenter said, after a moment. Kydd handed him the weighty tool. A couple of sharp blows at an ancient bolt started it from its seating. Kneeling down, the carpenter gave it a vigorous twist.

  A furious half-inch-thick jet of water spurted in, catching Kydd squarely.

  “Devil bolt!” the carpenter said. The bolt might have looked sound from the outside, but inside, there was nothing but falsework, crafty peculators at the dockyard having made off with the interior of the long copper bolt. “You’d better get down to the hold and take a squint, Nathan. This won’t be the only beggar,” he told his mate.

  The deck grating was lifted clear, and the man dropped down into the blackness of the hold. The lanthorn was passed down to him.

  They could hear him moving about, but then there was silence.

  “See anything?” the carpenter called. He was driving an octagonal oak treenail into the gushing bolt hole with accurate smashing hits, the water cutting off to a trickle, then nothing.

  There was no reply. “Nathan?” he called again, kneeling down to look into the hold. He was pushed out of the way abruptly by the carpenter’s mate. His eyes were staring, his face was white, and he was trembling.

  “What’s to do, mate?” the carpenter asked softly.

  The man gulped and turned to face him. “I s-seen a g-ghost! Somethin’ down there — it’s ’orrible. I gotta get out’ve it!”

  The carpenter clicked his tongue. “Well, here’s a to-do.” He hesitated for a moment and said, weakly, “Now, Kydd lad, you go below and sort it out for us, my boy.”

  Kydd sensed the man’s fear and felt an answering apprehension. There was nothing wrong with being afraid of ghosts, it stood to reason. He looked at the hole where the grating had been, then back at the carpenter.

  “Go on, I’ll come if you hails!” the carpenter mumbled.

  With the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end, Kydd cautiously dropped down on top of the casks. He looked around fearfully.

  There was nothing. He accepted the lanthorn, but its light was lost in the pervasive blackness and he could see little. The stench was unspeakable.

  Nervously he moved away from the access hole and crept toward the edge of the casks. Before he reached them he became aware of a sudden discontinuity in the blackness on his left.

  It took all his willpower to turn and confront it. It was a dim but defi nite ghostly blue-green glow, there at the edge of his vision, shapeless, direful. He froze. The light seemed to flicker in the dark of the farthest reaches of the hold but it didn’t come closer. His eyes strained. The light strengthened, still wavering and indistinct. Something made him move forward. He reached the edge of the casks.

  “Is all well, lad?” came an anxious call from the grating.

  A muffled acknowledgment was all Kydd could manage.

  The glow was still far off, down there in the shingle. There was no alternative. He slid over the edge and landed with a crash of stones. He looked up. The light was at a different angle now and seemed to be hovering, uncertain.

  Heart hammering, Kydd crunched cautiously toward it. The source of the light lengthened and grew in definition, nearer, and the light of the lanthorn reached it, swamped it. The sickly sweet stench was overpowering, and he gasped with horror. The ghost was a dead body, what was left of Eakin, the cooper’s mate, his putrefying remains luminescing in the blackness.

  With Tiberius a speck on the horizon, a soldier’s wind and Mr. Tewsley having the deck, it was time to take the wheel.

  “Kydd on the wheel, sir?” said Doud, whose trick at the helm it was.

  “Certainly,” Tewsley said, and nodded at the quartermaster, the petty officer in direct charge of the wheel. The man looked dubious, but stood back.

  The easy breeze meant that only one helmsman was needed at the man-high wheel, but Doud directed Kydd over to the lee position on the other side. “Jus’ follow me. You’re lee helmsman now, and while I watches the sails ’n’ compass, you watches me. Ready?”

  Kydd nodded, stepped up to the wheel and firmly grasped the spokes.

  “Like this, mate,” Doud said.

  Kydd saw that the hand on Doud’s inboard side was on an upper spoke while the outer hand was down on a lower spoke. He shifted his position and watched carefully. To his surprise the wheel felt alive — the little vibrations and jerks transmitted to him were a direct communication from the ship herself. He clasped the spokes tighter, watching Doud for his cues. He noticed that Doud’s chief interest seemed to be not the compass, but somewhere up aloft.

  “That’s ’cos I’m watching the weather leech o’ the main course — it’ll start to shake if I goes too high into the wind. You gets a much quicker notice from the sails if you’re off course, much better’n the compass.”

  It was very much a skilled job, much more so than Kydd had realized. It appeared that orders to the helm could take a bewildering number of forms — just to alter course away might be “hard a-starboard,” “bear up,” “helm a-weather” or “up helm,” each with its shades of meaning. But what Kydd found hardest was the simple sea convention that to starboard the helm would make the ship turn to port. It wasn’t until Doud mentioned that all helm orders had come unchanged down the years from the time when tillers were used to steer ships that he was able to make the mental adjustment.

  “Right, mate, about time you took the barky yourself.”

  Nervous, but thrilled, Kydd took over, Doud right behind him.

  “Steady, mate! She’s carrying two spokes of weather helm — that means from the midships spoke, the one with the brass tip, you need two o’ the spokes a-weather.”

  The wheel, as high as himself, felt huge at first, but to his great relief there was no sudden swing of the ship. The feel of the helm was a
firm pressure to one direction, which he held steadily against, sensing the rush and vibration of the ship through the water coming straight to him. His confidence increased.

  He peered down at the compass in the binnacle in front. The card hung lazily, the lubber’s line at south-sou’-west by a point west — he had spent a whole dog-watch boxing the compass to prepare for this moment. Then he squinted up at the main course, uncertain what the quartermaster meant when he growled, “Keep your luff!”

  Doud helped from behind, with an “Up helm a spoke!” or “Ease her!”

  Kydd looked forward, at the sweet curve of the deck under the sails going right forward to where the bows came together at the distant bowsprit, the whole dipping and rising majestically as it obediently followed his course ahead. Under his hands was a living thing, responding to his touch, his coaxing. He sensed that the slight quartering swell needed meeting with the helm as approaching waves varied their pressure on the rudder. Odd flaws and inconsistencies in the wind, which he hadn’t noticed before, now needed careful handling. A tiny flutter on the edge of the sail — up with the helm a couple of spokes and the flutter eased and disappeared. A lurch to leeward and over with the helm a-lee and back again — too much, the leech of the course started its restless flutter again; Kydd spun the wheel back — a bigger lurch, and bigger correction.

  “Doud!” snapped the quartermaster.

  Half gratefully, half reluctantly,Kydd surrendered the wheel to Doud, who killed the oscillation. “Nip over to the lee side, mate,” Doud invited, and Kydd spent the remainder of the trick as lee helmsman, absorbing the art and reflecting on the wonder of it all.

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  The early morning sun was warming to the skin, and dappled the fo’c’sle with the bright crisscross shadows of the rigging. The bow crunched into the Atlantic rollers, sending spray outward in a rainbow, the long swell lazy and serene.

  Kydd bent to his task: cross-legged he plied his needle skillfully, adding a fancy white edging to a seaman’s short blue jacket. He was good at his stitching, and sailors brought him work, which he would perform for favors. It was a Thursday make-and-mend afternoon and many were taking the opportunity to relax in the sun. Etiquette was scrupulously observed. In such restricted quarters each had his personal space as he sat on deck, and unless he wanted otherwise he was treated as though he was invisible.

  A shadow fell across Kydd and he looked up. “Nicholas! What cheer, mate?” he said, in surprise. It was not Renzi’s way to seek out company, for he preferred a quiet conversation with Kydd alone.

  Renzi smiled and struck a pose.

  Is she not beautiful! her graceful bow

  Triumphant rising o’er enamored tides,

  That, glittering in the noonday sun, now

  Just leap and die along her polished sides!

  “Just so, shipmate!” Kydd replied happily. He was envious of Renzi’s easy familiarity with words but enjoyed their display.

  “Do you take a tuck in my waistcoat, I would be infinitely obliged,” Renzi said, and squatted next to Kydd. He was struck by how much his friend had changed in just a few brief months. There was development and definition in his chest and arms, which sat well with his increasingly sea-darkened complexion, and his shining black hair was held back in a small queue. His experiences had toughened and shaped him, and his brown eyes now looked out with humor and self-assurance.

  “Give you joy of your rating, sir,” Renzi said formally.

  “Why, it’s to Ordinary Seaman, is all,” Kydd said.

  Renzi perceived the evident pleasure. “In Guildford they would not recognize you, Tom,” he said, “what with the cut o’ the jib of a seaman.”

  “Not that I’ve ever a chance of gettin’ to the old town,” Kydd replied, finishing the seam with a flourish of his capable brown fingers and biting off the thread.

  Renzi hesitated, then pulled something from his pocket. Looking around, he pressed it on Kydd. “It’s only a book, my friend, but in my time I’ve taken great comfort from its pages.”

  Kydd accepted it, flattered that Renzi thought he was a reading man. It was a slim volume printed with a tiny typeface — poetry by someone called Wordsworth.

  “The man is a revolutionary — in the literary way, I mean,” Renzi said. “You will sense the freedom and vitality. His verses are a paean to the sublime assertion of the individual; he brings . . . But, then, you’ll see all this for yourself, Tom,” he concluded lamely.

  Kydd looked at his friend, touched by his thought. He fiddled in his waistcoat. “And I have something f’r you,” he said, bringing out a screw of paper, which he handed over.

  Carefully Renzi undid the paper. Inside was a good six ounces of small dark whorls, thin disks of the most fragrant tobacco he had ever encountered. “My friend, this is magnificent!”

  Kydd was well pleased at the unfeigned delight. He had learned how to make a prick of tobacco from one of the gunner’s mates with whom he had shared a watch in one of the hanging magazines. A wad of good strong tobacco leaves was spread on flannel. Sprinkled with rum, it was rolled up and tied to a deckhead cleat with spun yarn, rotated tightly along its length and left for a week or so. The resulting hard plug was then cut with a razor-sharp knife into thin disks of shag.

  Appreciatively, Renzi drew out his clay pipe and rubbed himself a fill. Soon a powerful fragrance was on the wind and Renzi settled back against the carronade slide with a comfortable sigh.

  Kydd picked up the waistcoat. Renzi’s body had responded to seaboard life by becoming whipcord thin, and the garment would certainly need another tuck. He threaded the needle. “So much for the Mongseers!” Kydd grimaced. “Never a sign of ’em, and we trail our coats off their ports f’r weeks!”

  Renzi’s eyes were closed. “I wonder what’s happening in Paris,” he mused. “The mob will be baying for blood — but whose? The Jacobins ride the tiger — Robespierre needs victories if he is to prevail.” It was not easy to live in this total isolation, without a newspaper, journal or even a rumor when to his certain knowledge the world was in flames.

  Doud came up beaming with a tankard of small beer. “Well, Jack Tar, ahoy! I reckon we can’t ask Tom Kydd now to desire the sextant for to pray fer us!” He gave the beer to Kydd, looking at Renzi sideways as he did so.

  “You want a wet, Renzi?” he enquired.

  “That is most kind in you, Ned,” Renzi said, “and it’s Nicholas, by the way.”

  “You are most welcome, Nick,” Doud said, in mocking tones.

  “It’s Nicholas,” Kydd said.

  Doud grinned and left.

  It was glassy smooth, only a long swell moving under the glittering surface of the sea. The sails drew, but only just, Duke William inevitably falling away in the line of three ships as they exercised together.

  A distant thud was heard. Another — it sounded like a far-off door slamming. On the quarterdeck, telescopes whipped up and trained on the distant land. Another gun thudded — and a flurry started among the officers.

  “What’s that?” Kydd asked. He and Renzi were together now in the mizzen top as Kydd’s station had changed since his advancement to seaman. With a grandstand view of the quarterdeck, they saw the marine drummer boy hastily take position at the main hatch.

  “Quarters!” Renzi exclaimed.

  They looked at each other and descended hastily to the deck, moving past the raucous volleying of the drum at the main hatch to their respective stations.

  “What cheer, mates?” said Salter. “What’s the alarum, then?” His eyes glittered in the lower-deck gloom as he cleared away the muzzle lashing of their gun.

  “No idea, Will. Did see sail close inshore, but that’d be one of our frigates, I’ll wager.” Kydd had not been prepared to risk a rope’s end by hanging about to find out.

  This was a call for a full sweep fore and aft — anything that could not immediately be struck down into the hold was dumped overboard, and the sea
astern was studded by floating debris. The men worked fast — this was no drill.

  Renzi’s action quarters was at one of the upper-deck twelve-pounders. There was perhaps a chance that Kydd would see him if he was called away to handle sails, which was his secondary battle station.

  Down the fore hatch ladder clattered Midshipman Cantlow, still buckling on his dirk, his cocked hat askew. Kydd disliked him — the gangling man was older by far than the others, in his late twenties at least, not having the interest or ability to pass for lieutenant. He had once ordered a starting for Kydd over some trivial matter; it was not the colt whipping painfully across his shoulders that he remembered, it was the spite that had triggered it — Cantlow was embittered at his lot.

  “What news — sir?” asked Stirk. He was ignored, Cantlow adjusting his cross-belt and scabbard over the threadbare uniform coat. He would take charge of the foremost six guns under a lieutenant of the gundeck. With a significant look, Stirk called over to Doggo loudly, “Looks like we got ourselves a right smashin’ match, mate. Yer’ve made yer arrangements, then?”

  Kydd looked at him sharply.

  “Why, o’ course — but it ain’t no use, there won’t be many of us left after the fightin’ really gets started, we bein’ down here in the slaughterhouse ’n’ all,” Doggo replied, his face blank.

  “What are you yattering about, you useless swabs?” Cantlow said irritably, fiddling nervously with his dirk.

  “Seen the doc sharpenin’ his saws,” Salter said gloomily. “Shoulda got the carpenter to do a better job — never could stand a blunt saw at me bones.”

  “An’ where’s the priest?” Velasquez added mournfully. “’Ow we can die wi’out we ha’ a priest?”

  “Silence! Do you think to bait me? You stinking, worthless scum!” Cantlow glared around.

  “Why, sir,” Stirk said, with a saintly expression, “we’re cruel a-feared, ’n’ we need some words, some strong words, from an orficer to steady us in our time o’ need-sir!”