"Kydd" - читать интересную книгу автора (Stockwin Julian)

CHAPTER 2

It was the cruelest journey, from the womb-like escape of sleep and a gentle dream of home – the musty little shop, his mother watching him as he stitched dutifully at a periwig, the sun splashing in through the thick windows – back to this waking nightmare.

Then came a vigorous shaking. “Rouse yourself – you’re wanted on deck!” The boatswain’s distinctive voice brought Kydd to his senses. “On deck. First Lieutenant means to muster all pressed men.” The light from the lanthorn he carried deepened the lines in his face and sent a glow into the far corners of the sail room. “You’ll get the number of your mess then. And your watch ’n’ station.”

Kydd struggled to his feet. “Thank ’ee, sir, I’m -”

“Get going – ask y’r way to the quarterdeck, abaft the mainmast.”

In the cold gray of dawn, the pathetic line of pressed men shuffled miserably.

Kydd recognized the homespun and weatherworn old felt coat of a peddler, the patterned stockings, soft bonnet and greatcoat of a sedanchair man, the leather knee breeches and smock of an agricultural laborer. They looked out of place here.

The wind off the sea was raw and blustery. Kydd’s plain broadcloth coat gave little protection and he shivered.

The sea dominated in every direction, winter-hard, blue-gray, its vastness amazing to someone whose only experience of great waters had been the Thames at Weybridge. A slight breeze flurried the surface, but Kydd’s eyes kept returning to the metallic line of the horizon. The ship slipped through the sea in a continuous, unvarying motion. Day and night they would be moving like this, much faster than he could run, eating up the countless miles without ever stopping. And over the line of horizon was the outer world – that plane of existence containing the dangers and fables that were part of the folklore of his society. Where previously it could be marveled at or ignored, now it was advancing to meet him, both threatening and beguiling.

The man at the wheel stood braced impassively, occasionally looking up at the weather leech of the main course, easing a spoke or two if it appeared to be on the point of shivering in the useful quartering breeze. Nearby, the officer of the watch paced slowly, his telescope of office under his arm.

High up the mighty mainmast nearly overhead, on the sturdy platform of the main fighting top, figures could be seen preparing for some maneuver. As Kydd watched, one man swung out and appeared to hang down from the main yard. He moved out, the men in the top paying out a rope as he made his way along the hundred-foot spread of the yard. Even at this distance Kydd could see that the sailor was disdaining to cling on, instead balancing between the tiny footrope he stood on while leaning familiarly against the big spar.

Kydd watched in awe. Then there was movement and the Master-at-Arms growled, “To yer front!”

The First Lieutenant strode briskly out from the cabin spaces aft, accompanied by a junior officer. His clerk hurried after him with books and paper, quill and ink. Two men set up a table at which Tyrell and the clerk then sat.

Tyrell looked up at them from under his bushy eyebrows and nodded to the lieutenant, who touched his hat and went over to the pressed men to address them. “Pay attention! You will now be assigned your watch and station. This is very important. It will tell you your duty for every motion of this vessel, be it by the actions of the sea or the malice of the enemy. You will present yourself at your place of duty immediately when you are called by the boatswain’s mates or any other in lawful authority over you.” The men stared at him with attitudes ranging from dumb resentment to outright fear. “And if not found at your post, you will answer for it at your peril!”

The proceedings were efficient and rapid. In a short while Kydd was left standing holding a piece of paper bearing terse details of his future existence aboard Duke William. It appeared that the officer of his division, a Lieutenant Tewsley, and his deputy, Mr. Lacey, master’s mate, would also have these details to hand. Possession of these particulars seemed to Kydd a mark of finality. With them he could no longer claim, even to himself, that he was a temporary, unwilling visitor to their world. He was now unarguably an official part of it, and therefore subject to the most solemn penalties under the Articles of War.

A tendril of his dream brushed briefly over his mind and he felt lonely, vulnerable and frightened. Apart from the hotheaded Stallard, there was not a soul aboard whom he knew, someone he could trust, to whom he could reveal all his present fears and anxieties. One thing was sure: from now on he could rely only on himself, his own strength of mind and will. Blinking, he focused his attention on the First Lieutenant.

Tyrell finished scrawling in the margins of the book and rose. For a long moment he paused, his deep-set eyes fixed on the disconsolate group. Then he turned to the junior officer and snapped, “For God’s sake, arrange an issue of slops immediately. I’ll not have this ship looking like a dago doss-house!”

The bird-like purser’s assistant held up a blue and white striped opennecked shirt. “Here’s a fine rig for a sailor,” he said. With it were some white duck trousers and a wide black leather belt.

Kydd took them. The material was strong but coarse; it would never do in Guildford, but he could see that here its robustness would serve its purpose. He couldn’t help noticing how soft and pale his fingers were, and he wondered how long they would take to become brown and tough like a sailor’s. There was no escaping it – soon he would be a very different person from the one he was now.

The assistant rummaged about and produced a short dark blue jacket adorned with plain anchor buttons and with it a glossy black tarpaulin hat and other seaman-like gear, and added them to the small pile. “Try them on.”

It felt like dressing up, but it was plain that the short jacket and loosebottomed trousers gave a great deal of freedom for movement. There was need, perhaps, for a bit of work with needle and thread to smarten them up, but they would do.

Trousers – these free-swinging garments were peculiar to the sea profession, and they felt loose and strange. Kydd had been in “kicks” – tight knee breeches – all his life, and so had everyone else of his acquaintance, high and low. He put on his glossy tarpaulin hat at a rakish angle and chuckled grimly at the sheer incongruity of it all.

“So you’ll not be wanting these again,” the assistant said, disdainfully holding up Kydd’s sorry-looking country clothes. Without waiting for a reply he stuffed them into a sack.

A ship’s boy led the way up the ladder for several of the group who had mess numbers on the lower gundeck. It was deserted, and at a point where the bows began their curve in, forward on the starboard side, Kydd took a long hard look at the place that would be his home in his new life.

It was the space between two monster long guns, now with their fat muzzles lashed upward against the ship’s side. As he had seen the previous night, there was a table that could be lowered, revealing neat racks for the mess traps – wooden plates, pewter cutlery and bowls. Selfconsciously Kydd added his new canvas ditty bag to the others hanging up along the ship’s side. Each bag had an access hole halfway up the side, which was a practical means of keeping clothing and personal effects ready for use. Even in the dimness the impression he had was of extreme neatness and order, a Spartan blend of lived-in domesticity and uncompromising dedication to war. The whole purpose of the ship’s existence was as an engine of destruction to be aimed at the mortal enemies of his country.

He emerged warily on deck to slate-colored skies and fretful seas. The sails were braced round at an angle to the northerly, and there away to starboard, from where the wind blew, was a mottled coastline, all in greens and nondescript browns. There was no way of telling where this was. To Kydd it might be England or a hostile foreign shore. It was entirely different from what he could remember of the rolling greensward of the North Downs.

“Damn you, sir! Do you think this is a cruise, that you are a passenger on my fo’c’sle?”

Kydd had not noticed the officer standing among the men at the foot of the foremast. In confusion he faced him and attempted to address him.

“Respects to the officer when you speaks to him, lad,” a petty officer said testily.

Kydd hesitated.

Exasperated, the petty officer said more forcefully, “You salutes him, you lubber.” Seeing Kydd’s continued puzzlement, he knuckled his forehead in an exaggerated way. “Like this, see.”

Kydd complied – it was no different from when he had to address the squire at home. “Kydd, sir, first part of starboard watch.”

“Never mind your watch, what part-of-ship are you?” the officer asked tartly.

The question left Kydd at a loss. He saw the great bowsprit with its rearing headsails soaring out over the sea ahead. “Th’ front part, sir?”

The men broke into open laughter and the officer’s eyes glittered dangerously. Kydd’s face burned.

A petty officer took his paper. “Ah, he’s afterguard, sir, new joined.”

“Then he’d better explain to Mr. Tewsley at the forebrace bitts why he is absent when parts-of-ship for exercise has been piped!” The officer turned his back and inspected the clouds of sail above.

“Get cracking, son!” the petty officer snapped. “You’ll find ’em just abaft the mainmast – that’s the big stick in the middle.”

Kydd balled his fists as he set off in the direction indicated. He had not been treated like this since he was a child.

Around the mainmast there were scores of men, each in defined groups. They were all still, and tension hung in the air. A group of officers stood together in the center, so he approached the most ornate and saluted. “Kydd, first part of starboard watch, and afterguard,” he reported.

The officer’s eyebrows rose in haughty astonishment, and he looked sideways in interrogation at the young officer at his side.

“One of the new pressed men, I think, sir,” the officer replied, and turned to Kydd. “Report to Mr. Tewsley at the forebrace bitts – over there,” he added, pointing impatiently to the square frame at the base of the massive mainmast. Kydd did so, feeling every eye on him.

“Thank you, Kydd,” a lined, middle-aged lieutenant replied, looking at Kydd’s paper. “Bowyer, your mess,” he told a seaman with iron-gray hair, standing near the maze of belayed ropes hanging from their pins at the square framing of the bitts.

“Aye, sir,” the man replied. “Over here, mate. Jus’ do what I tells you to, when I does,” he muttered. The group of officers in the center of the deck conferred, the rest of the ship waiting.

Bowyer leaned forward. “That was the Cap’n you spoke to, cully. Don’t you do that again, ’less you’ve got special reason.”

The discussion among the officers grew heated in the inactivity, the Captain standing passive.

Bowyer looked curiously at Kydd and said in a low voice, “’Oo are you, then?”

“It’s Tom – Thomas Kydd, who was o’ Guildford.”

“Joe Bowyer – an’ keep it quiet, lad,” Bowyer said, from the corner of his mouth. “It’s always ‘silence fore ’n’ aft’ when we’re handling sail for exercise.” He snatched a glance aft. “Jus’ that we’ve done a dog’s breakfast of the sail drill, and someone ’as to catch it in the neck,” he muttered, his voice oddly soft for a long-service seaman.

Kydd noticed the petty officer closest to Tewsley: his face was set and hard as he watched the officers and in his fist was a coiled rope’s end. Kydd stood with the others, unsure even where to put his hands, but the confidence in Bowyer’s open face was reassuring.

Tewsley had the calmness of age, but he also kept his eyes fixed on the group on the quarterdeck.

The Captain turned on his heel and took position before the man at the wheel. He looked up once at the maze of sails and cordage, then down to the teams of waiting men. “Hands to make sail,” he ordered. His voice came thinly, even with the speaking trumpet.

“Sod it!” Bowyer’s curse made Kydd jump. “Captain’s taking over.” Kydd puzzled at the paradox. “Th’ Captain shouldn’t take charge?” he asked.

Bowyer frowned. He gave a furtive look aft and replied gravely, “’Cos he’s not what you might call a real man-o’-war’s man – got his step through arse-lickin’ in Parliament or some such.” He sucked his teeth. “Don’t trust him in sailorin’, yer might say.”

The Captain raised his speaking trumpet again. “Stations to set main topsail.”

Lifting his voice, Tewsley called, “Captain of the quarterdeck!”

Kydd looked about in surprise, expecting another gold-laced officer. Instead the hard-faced petty officer came forward.

“Carry on, Elkins.”

The petty officer rounded on his men. “Youse – double up on the weather buntlines, and you lot t’ the clewlines.” To Bowyer he ordered tersely, “Lee clewlines.”

Elkins moved to the bitts at the base of the mast from which hung masses of ropes, and Kydd noticed that there were openings in the deck on each side down which ropes passed to the deck below. “Stand by topsail sheets, you waisters!” Elkins bellowed.

Bowyer crossed quickly to the row of belaying pins at the ship’s side, just where the shrouds of the mainmast reached the bulwarks – the men already there moved to make room for him.

As much to them as to Kydd he said, “Now, Kydd, when I casts loose, you tails on to the line with the rest o’ them land toggies.”

The tension was almost palpable. Most of the ordinary sailors Kydd could see around him were clearly not of the first order, and he guessed that they were stationed here because they could be brought more under eye from the quarterdeck. All were uneasy and watchful.

The man at the wheel now had a second assisting him in the freshening wind, and the ship showed a more lively response to the hurrying seas.

The Captain brought out a large gold watch and consulted it ostentatiously. “I shall want to see topsails set and sheeted home at least a minute faster. If this is not achieved” – he glanced about him – “then hands will not be piped to dinner until it is.”

At Bowyer’s snort, Kydd turned. “He means no grog until he gets ’is times,” he growled.

“Stand by!” A boatswain’s mate placed his call to his lips, eyes on the Captain, who nodded sharply.

The peal of the call was instantly overlain with shouts from all parts of the deck.

“Lay aloft and loose topsail!”

Men shot past Kydd and into the main shrouds to begin a towering climb to the topmast. Bowyer jumped to the clewline fall and lifted clear the coil of rope, thumping it to the deck behind him. Kydd was shouldered roughly out of the way as the line was handed along until all had seized hold of it. He joined hesitantly at the end. Bowyer expertly undid the turns until one remained, the line of men taking the strain. He looked across in readiness.

Tewsley was staring hard upward and Kydd followed his gaze. Men had made the ascent up the shrouds to the maintop, and were even now continuing on past and up the topmast shrouds, moving up the ratlines in fast, jerky movements. They reached the topsail yard – an arm waved.

“Lay out and loose!”

Kydd was startled by Tewsley’s roar, which seemed too great to have come from his slight frame. In response seamen poured out along the yard on each side and began casting off the gaskets retaining the sail. Watching them moving far above, he felt his palms go clammy at the thought of the height at which they were working, much higher than the top of any building he had ever seen. He stole a glance back at the Captain, who stood impassively, still holding his watch before him.

The sail began dropping from the yard.

“Sheets!” Tewsley snapped.

“Topsail sheets!” roared Elkins, to the deck below, and was answered by an instant rattling of ropes against the mainmast.

“Clewlines!”

Bowyer cast off the last turn and the lee topsail clewline swung clear.

The rough hairiness of the rope felt alien to Kydd, but being at the end of the line, he manfully put all his weight on it – and was immediately pulled off his feet.

He scrambled up, roundly cursed by those in front.

From nowhere came the hiss and fiery crack of a rope’s end over his back. The pain caught him by surprise, clamping his chest in a stab of breathlessness. He swung round to see Elkins coiling his rope for a second lash. Instinctively he threw up his arms to shield himself.

Surprise, then cruel satisfaction passed over Elkins’s face. “Well, damn me eyes! Raise yer ’and to a superior officer, then, you mangy dog!”

Bowyer threw in his position as first on the line. Racing up behind Kydd, he felled him with a glancing blow to the ear. “No, he wasn’t, Mr. Elkins – he’s a iggerant lubber who doesn’t know ’is ropes yet.” Panting and staring at Kydd rather than Elkins, he continued, “Give ’im a chance to learn – only bin aboard a dog-watch.”

Ears ringing, Kydd staggered to his feet.

“Silence!” Tewsley strode over, his face red with anger. “Take charge properly, Elkins, or I’ll have you turned before the mast this instant.”

Elkins wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his eyes following Tewsley. “Ease away clewlines.”

Taking up position in front of Kydd, Bowyer threw over his shoulder, “Sorry fer that. See, yer heaves on the sheets, but when settin’ sail you overhauls the clewlines ’n’ buntlines – let it out, mate,” he said, tugging at the line to let it go forward.

Kydd did as he was told, too stunned by events to question anything.

“Handsomely!” Tewsley growled, as the rope surged.

On the main yard, at the weather tip, a man sat astride the yardarm, his feet in the “Flemish horse” footrope at the end, his task to keep the loose line of the sheet fed into the sheave at the best angle as the sail was sheeted home.

Querulous, the Captain called across, “Get your men to work, Mr. Tewsley-they seem to have gone to sleep!”

“Er – sir, we -” began Tewsley, in astonishment.

The men at the clewlines and buntlines didn’t hesitate: unskilled as they were, and under the Captain’s eye, they lost no time in paying out the line faster and faster.

“Avast there,” roared Tewsley, but it was too late. At the topsail, the clewline dropping the corner of the sail had been slackened faster than the sheet pulling from beneath could keep up. Instead of a controlled glide to the yardarm, the topsail was now free to flog itself about in sweeping lashes. The topsail sheetman at the end of the yard ducked and parried, but there was nowhere to hide. The cluster of three massive blocks at the lower corner of the topsail, now a plaything of the hundred-foot expanse of sail, bounced the man off the yard. He fell in a wide arc outward and into the sea, his piercing shriek of despair paralyzing Kydd until it was cut off by the sea.

Kydd rushed to the side and saw the man, buffeted by the side wake of the ship, quickly sliding astern and away into the gray seas. The man’s arm raised briefly to show he had survived the fall and Kydd turned to see what would be done. The Captain, however, did not move, frozen in a stare forward.

“Sir!” the young officer of the watch entreated. It was not clear whether the Captain had indeed taken over the deck. “Sir, do we go about?”

The Captain stood as though in a trance.

Tewsley threw himself toward the wheel and roared, “Down helm – hard! Get that hatch grating overside. Let go lee main braces, main tack and sheet!” Spinning on his heels, he bawled forward, “Flow head sheets – clear away the lee cutter!” Ponderously the ship’s head fell away from the wind. Tewsley paused and looked toward the Captain, who showed no apparent recognition. “Main clewgarnets and buntlines – up mainsail!”

The great mainsail spilled its wind and began to be gathered up to the yard.

Glancing aft to the far-off tiny dot in the sea, Tewsley snapped, “Brace aback – heave to!” The effect of the backed sails balancing those normally set allowed the vessel to come to a stop, drifting slowly downwind. Touching his hat, Tewsley reported to the Captain, “Ship heaving to, sir. Larboard cutter on yard and stay tackles for launching.”

The Captain’s eyes seemed to focus slowly. “That is well, Mr. Tewsley, but I was looking to Mr. Lockwood to act in this matter.” He stepped over to the poop deck ladder, touching it as though curious, and nodded to the young officer of the watch. “Carry on, Mr. Lockwood,” he said, almost without interest.

From his place Kydd saw the boat hoisted from its chocks and lowered overside. It was a complex process and took far more men to achieve than the size of the boat seemed to suggest would be needed. He joined the crowd at the ship’s side to watch.

It was too distant to see what was happening, and many opinions were expressed, but eventually when the boat drew near again, the chatter died away at the sight of a canvas-covered form lying along the thwarts between the rowers.

The bowman stood in the foresheets and neatly hooked the mizzen chains. The boat lay bobbing alongside, oars tossed vertically. The coxswain stood and cupped his hands. “’E’s dead!” he shouted.

Kydd tailed on to the yardarm whip that hoisted the dead man inboard, secured to the grating. The surgeon, a lugubrious man in rumpled black, pushed through the throng and bent over the still form. “Broken bones and morbid cold – there was never any question.” He did not look up.

The two bells remaining of the exercise time went slowly for Kydd. The sailor’s sudden transition from hero of a lofty world to dead clay was much to take in. His experiences of death previously had been like Old Uncle Peel in a huddle on the high street, and the solemnity of the succeeding funeral. He pulled himself together. There was nothing he could do for the man.

At eight bells – midday – the peal of the boatswain’s calls ended their drill. The Captain evidently did not wish to press the point about times. “Hands to dinner!”

Bowyer turned to him and said sourly, “Let’s get below. I’ve a need to get outside a grog or two after this.”

Grateful for his invitation, Kydd followed him down the fore hatch-way, arriving in the now familiar gloom of the lower gundeck. It was alive with talk, and the tone of the voices and glaring eyes left him with no doubt about the subject.

They thrust past to reach their mess, which Kydd noticed was conveniently not far from the hatchway, just at the point where the round of the bows straightened into the long sweep aft. He thought to count the number of guns from forward. His mess lay between the third and fourth guns. It was already nearly full and now he would be meeting his messmates. What would they make of an unwilling outsider like himself, who knew not the first thing about their strange, dangerous world?

Bowyer grabbed the lanthorn that hung above the table and held it up next to Kydd’s face. “Listen, you bilge rats,” he said against the din, “this here’s Tom Kydd, pressed man o’ Guildford, an’ he’s our new messmate.”

There was a hush, and Kydd watched the faces turn toward him, varying in expression from frank curiosity to blank disinterest. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, in as neutral a tone as he could manage.

A scornful “Pleased ter meecher!” came from a sharp-faced man on one side. “We don’t have that sorta talk here, cully.”

“Stow it, Howell,” Bowyer said shortly. “Don’t you pay no mind to ’im, the old snarley-yow. He is – or was, I should say – a merchant jack and pressed same as you, ’cept he’s makin’ more noise about it.”

Next to Howell a pleasant-faced lad stood up and leaned over to offer his hand. “Dick Whaley, pressed outa the Maid o’ Whitby, same as Jonas here.” Kydd took the hand gratefully.

Howell snorted. “What he’s not sayin’ is that I was bo’sun aboard while he was afore the mast – and don’t he forget it!”

Whaley laughed. “And here we’re a pair of foremast jacks both. At least we’ve a chance fer some prize money. In the old Maid we was just floggin’ up and down the coast with a belly full of sea-coal, and never the sight of a frolic.”

“Let him sit, Joe.” At the ship’s side was a considerably older seaman, nearly covered with faded tattoos. His mild, seamed face gazed steadily at Kydd.

Bowyer thumbed at the old sailor. “That’s Samuel Claggett, fo’c’sle-man to the quality. Been aboard since the last age, so we ’as to keep ’im in humor.”

While Kydd found his place at the end of the bench the conversations took up again. Diffident, he said nothing and tried to listen to the others. His eyes slid to the men opposite and were caught, to his astonishment, by the glittering black orbs of a Chinaman, the first he had ever seen. The man sat without speaking, his shaven head reflecting the lanthorn glow. Bowyer noticed Kydd’s start of surprise and said, “Say ‘how’ to Wong, then.”

“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.”

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.”