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

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?”

“Christ save us!” Bowyer blurted, staring forward. “We’re falling aboard Barfleur!” He reached for the familiar solidity of the forebrace bitts.

Kydd looked back at the quarterdeck – the wheel was hard over, but their slow way through the water did not give sufficient bite to the rudder and the bow’s reluctant swing was agonizingly too ponderous. Looking down the length of the ship, he saw that beyond their long bowsprit loomed the after end of a vessel quite as big as they, toward which they seemed to be sliding inexorably. There was frantic activity on her quarterdeck and poop, booms beginning to stick out in despairing efforts to fend off the inevitable, white faces, angry shouts carrying across the water.

The maneuver had failed in its purpose; the falling light winds blowing against the wrong side of the sails were insufficient to stop the forward momentum of the heavy battleship – a sad misjudgment. And under the eyes of the Admiral.

Kydd watched the drama deepen on the quarterdeck. Captain Caldwell had the speaking trumpet up, but no words came. He looked sideways briefly at Tyrell, who refused to catch his eye, standing square, oak-like, and with eyes in a fierce stare forward. No one moved.

It did not take much imagination to picture the result of the impact of a couple of thousand tons of out-of-control warship on another; Kydd, to his surprise, felt only a strange detached control as he awaited the outcome.

A flurry of shouts took Kydd’s attention forward again. On the fo’c’sle, someone with quick wits had taken advantage of the presence of the fo’c’slemen, the most skilled and reliable seamen in the ship, to stop the downward descent of the jib and to boom it out sideways from its usual fore and aft position. It took the wind at a slant, and as the sail jerked higher, exposing more area, it tautened and added a lateral force to that of the rudder, and the ship’s head began to move a little faster. They were now very near, close enough to make out on the decks of the other ship running figures, faces at the gunports, a lazy spiral of smoke from the galley chimney.

Beside him, Bowyer remained still, with a grave but calm expression as he watched. Kydd held his breath and braced himself.

Their bowsprit speared across the last few feet of Barfleur’s poop, snapping the ensign staff like a twig, instantly dowsing the huge flag. Her spanker boom shuddered and jerked in response to the twanging of rigging as it parted, and a loud scr-e-e-eak ended as quickly as it started.

Still swinging, the bulge of their bows narrowed the distance to her ornamented stern galleries, but Kydd saw that they had a chance – the gap was sufficient – and they were on their way past.

The elaborately carved and gilded windows of the First Rate shot by, it seemed at a bare arm’s length, Kydd catching sight through one window as they swept past of a shocked white face, without a wig.

Their momentum carried them on for several hundred yards before they brought to, and they sagged away downwind in ignominy. Now flat aback, the vessel began to gather sternway, and under the last helm order this led to the remaining sails filling once more on the original tack. In silence they went around again, wearing ship, to repeat the whole maneuver. This time they crept in, turning and coming up into the wind well separated from the nearest vessel. The anchor was let go when forward motion ceased, the gun salute banging out from forward to send clouds of acrid smoke smothering aft around Kydd.

The ship now fell to leeward until checked by the paid-out cable, leaving the vessel at anchor in her final position.

At supper liquor flowed around the mess tables and tongues loosened. “What a bloody shambles! Seen better handlin’ on the village pond.”

“Lost it again. We’ve got ourselves a right Jonah, mates.”

“Yair – he’s bin called away by Black Dick to account fer hisself ’n’ I doubts he’ll be a-pacin’ his own quarterdeck for much longer.”

“Meantimes, he’s goin’ to be killin’ orf sailors, lads, don’t forget that.”

Bowyer said nothing, looking thoughtfully over his pot. He leaned forward. “Did you ever stop to think, mates, that he’s only had the Royal Billy a few weeks – and not forgettin’ a fourth part of his crew are new pressed?”

It didn’t have any takers.

“I seen like dat in Lisbon. They take the capitão ashore – they shoot him!”

Kydd turned in surprise to the man at the end of the table. He was a sorrowful-looking, wall-eyed Iberian with a flaming red kerchief in place of the usual black.

“Savin’ your presence, Pinto, the dagos sometimes got the right slant on things.” Claggett’s pronouncement did not invite comment.

Bowyer gave a twisted smile. “That’s Pinto, Tom. A Portugee with some sorta quarrel with shoreside. ’N’ cox’n’s mate – that’s why you ain’t seen him before,” he added, as though it were an obvious explanation for his absence for meals at sea.

With a quaint flourish, Pinto flashed his teeth and bobbed his head. “Fernando da Mesouta Pinto, your service,” he said melodiously. “We ha’ not met?”

Unsure, Kydd nodded in return. “Thomas Kydd o’ Guildford,” he said, and seeing the polite inclination of the head added more loudly, “in England.”

“O’ course, Thomas. And you are pressed? What did you before?”

The conversations died away, eyes turning curiously to Kydd. He was aware that Renzi, in his accustomed position at the ship’s side opposite Claggett, had his dark eyes on him as well, but he refused to give the satisfaction of noticing.

“Perruquier!” he said defiantly, and took a strong pull at the grog. The hubbub at the other tables flurried and ebbed, but when he set down his tankard there was no comment.

“Fine thing fer a man in Guildford,” Claggett said mildly.

Howell gave a harsh laugh. Then he leaned across the table and mock-toasted the bow-backed man next to Kydd. “About as fine a thing as bein’ a gennelman’s flunkey aboard a king’s ship, eh, you – Buddles?”

The man made no reply. His eyes dropped as he shied away from the confrontation, his face turning toward Kydd.

Kydd was shocked at the extremity of misery he saw.

“What’s this – nothin’ to say? Yer tongue lyin’ to under a storm jib, then?” Howell leaned back and half turned to his neighbor.

“Nah – he’s missin’ his woman! He’s quean-struck on the old biddy – I saw them together in the tavern.”

“Leave him, companheiro.” The voice sliced through the talk quietly.

“What’s he to you, Pinto?” Howell said loudly, and glared at him. “That looby a friend of yourn?”

In a movement of snake-like quickness Pinto thrust over and seized Howell’s kerchief. He yanked the man toward him – and toward a glint of steel that had simultaneously appeared at Howell’s throat. “You a pig,” Pinto said, in a low and perfectly even voice.

Howell’s hands fell away slowly, far too late to intervene. He was careful not to move. “You – you’re mad, you dago bastard!”

Pinto held him with his brown, liquid eyes, then slowly released him, withdrawing the knife at the last moment. From first to last there had been no expression of emotion. Pinto resumed his place opposite Kydd and, unexpectedly, smiled at him. At a loss, Kydd smiled back, finding his gaze sliding along to Renzi, who sat perfectly still and as watchful as a cat.

Claggett cleared his throat and addressed the now silent table. “You’re caught fightin’, Pinto, yer’ll get your back flayed at the gratings. And you, Howell, you know damn well that Buddles ain’t no sailor, and he’s got a family ’n’ bantlin’s an’ all. They could be on the parish now, fer all he knows.”

A smothered sob escaped Buddles.

“Come on, Jonas, leave him be,” Whaley begged. “We’ve got Portsmouth Point under our lee, ’n’ I’m hot for a cruise there tonight – let’s see if your Betty still remembers yer.”

Howell glowered.

“Where’ll you be headin’ for, Ned?” Whaley asked Doud, whose countenance had brightened considerably at the direction the talk was taking.

Kydd bit his lip. The thought of returning to land and walking in a street, any street, seeing men in breeches, women in dresses and laughing children, stabbed with poignant appeal. He downed the last of his grog. “What about you, Joe?” he asked Bowyer.

A slow, shy smile spread across his face. “Well, Tom, you see, I’ve an understandin’ with a lady, name of Poll. We goes back awhile.” His face softened. “We gets leave to step off, she’ll be a-waitin’ for me at Sally Port, ’n’ if not, then we’ll get ‘wives aboard’ all the while we’re at moorin’s. ’S only human.” The kindly gray eyes rested on Kydd. “She’ll know some young lass as would welcome an arrangement with ye, Tom, don’t you worry. It’s the right way fer a sailor.”

“All hands! The hands ahoy! All hands on deck – lay aft!” The boatswain’s mates echoed each other along the gundeck.

“Well, mates, we says our farewells to Johnny Hawbuck, I believe.” Bowyer seemed relieved at the swift return of the Captain and therefore early resolution of the situation.

Howell stirred. “Aye, but that means it’s going to be Mantrap instead – it’ll be a hell ship.”

Claggett broke through the murmuring: “Maybe, but don’t count on it. Black Dick’ll have his cronies he’ll want to satisfy, ’n’ who knows? We could get a real tartar like Bligh!”

“Could be – but at least Bligh was a reg’lar built sailorman. Damn near four thousan’ miles in that longboat ’n’ never lost a man.”

Whaley punched Doud playfully. “Yeah – and at least now we’ll know if it’ll be the larbowlines first ashore.”

It was the first time that Kydd had seen both watches of the ship’s company mustered together on deck, nearly eight hundred men. Bowyer had been right – the figure of the Captain stood clear above them at the forward nettings of the poop deck, waiting as the men congregated below. His officers stood behind, rigid and ill at ease. From all parts of the ship seamen came, covering the quarterdeck from the binnacle to the gangways. Quickly the rigging filled with men eager to improve their view.

Kydd, with his messmates, took position near the center, by the rail of the main companionway.

“Can’t say Mantrap looks well pleased – wonder why?” Bowyer muttered.

Claggett looked bemused. “No sign of the new owner. Surely they’re not giving Shaney Jack his step over Tyrell?”

Pinto’s vicious curse drew a sharp look from the petty officers.

Wong grunted. “If him, I Hung Fu Chi!” The contempt in his bland face was the first expression Kydd had ever seen on it.

The wondering murmurs continued until Caldwell nodded at Tyrell, who snapped, “Still!” at the boatswain.

From a dozen silver calls a single steady note pealed. A slight shuffling of feet and silence spread. Captain Caldwell strode forward to the break of the poop to take position, legs astride, hands behind his back. In front of him, the ship’s company of Duke William: petty officers, hard men, the freely acknowledged backbone of the Navy; the tarry-pigtailed long-service able seamen, relaxed but wary; the idlers – the armorer, cooper, sailmaker, carpenter and their mates in their outlandish working clothes; the yeomen – coxswain, quartermasters, gunner’s mates; and the landmen, anxious, not understanding.

The Captain cleared his throat and began. “I’ve called you all aft to tell you the news.” His voice, not strained in shouting orders, was a pleasant patrician baritone. “But first I want to congratulate the fo’c’slemen on their quick thinking this morning. It may have prevented an unfortunate accident from occurring. Well done.”

There was a ripple of indistinct comment.

He paused, looking grave. “We shall need that sort of initiative and attention to duty where we will be going.”

Significant looks were exchanged. If Caldwell was talking about sea duty in the near future, then not only would estimates of leave time ashore need to be revised but they would be putting out into the Atlantic winter in an old, leaky vessel in certain peril of their lives. Faces hardened and attitudes took on a sullen cast as they waited for what came next.

“As most ready for sea, we sail in a little while on a very important task. A vital task, and one on which England’s very existence may depend.”

Disbelieving stares and mutters came from all sides: the men had been quick to notice Caldwell’s use of “we” – clearly he had got away with it, there would be no new captain.

“You don’t need me to remind you that we are now at war with France. And this time we’re dealing with a set of murderous bandits who will stop at nothing.” His voice whipped and rose in dramatic flourishes. “We proceed with Tiberius and Royal Albion with frigates for the coast of France to clamp our hold on their deep-sea ports in time to prevent their fleet coming out to fall upon these islands. And our folk at home are right to put their trust in us to defend them. Ours is the just cause and ours will be the victory. Let me hear your spirit, men – an huzzah for old England! Let me hear it!”

There were sparse cheers and stony looks.

“And another for our brave ship!”

The cheers held a little more conviction.

“A three times three for His Majesty!”

This time the shouts were more good-humored, for it was not the amiable “Farmer George” who was the cause of their immediate discontent. Volleys of cheers echoed over the water, Caldwell and all the officers marking time with their hats.

The final cheer died away. Satisfied, Caldwell carefully replaced his cocked hat and stepped forward again. “This ship is now under sailing orders. The hoys are already on their way out to us in order that we may complete stores ready for sea as soon as possible, and I know you are ready to do your duty. Unfortunately it is not possible to grant leave ashore,” he continued smoothly. “You will, of course, appreciate the need for all hands at this time.”

A surge of muttering spread outward in the sea of faces. Growls from the petty officers did little to stop it. Caldwell looked pained and waited. The murmuring grew in volume. Now and then individual shouts could be heard.

Tyrell stood rigid, his chin thrust out, his eyes dangerous slits.

More shouts erupted. Tyrell snapped at the Captain of Marines and a line of marines descended each side of the poop and forced their way forward down each side of the deck. On command, they halted and turned inboard, their muskets held tightly across their chests.

The men drew back, the growls replaced by looks of savage discontent.

Caldwell resumed in the same smooth tones: “I shall not be able to be with you during this period, unfortunately. I have urgent business in London. However, I’m sure you will give your support to Mr. Tyrell, who will act in my place until I return.” He nodded at Tyrell. “Carry on, please.” Accompanied by his clerk, he made his way down the ladder and disappeared into the cabin spaces, leaving a somber group of officers on the poop.

Tyrell moved forward. “Hands to stations for store ship,” he ordered brusquely.

“No liberty – what about wives and sweethearts?” The vigorous shout came from the anonymous center of the mass of seamen and was immediately taken up by all around. Boats now putting out from shore, crowded with enterprising womenfolk, gave point to their grievance.

“Silence!” Tyrell roared. His hands, clamped on the rail, writhed under the intensity of his anger. “You’re under discipline, you mutinous rascals. Any one of you wants to forget this, then I’ll see his backbone at the gratings and be damned to him. And it’s no use baying after skirt like a set of mangy dogs. It’ll do you no good. We’re under sailing orders. You’re a vile set of lubbers, no control, and I will not have the discipline in this ship undone by letting a crowd of drabtail trulls come swarming aboard.”

“Why – the poxy, cuntbitten bastard! The – the -” Words failed Whaley.

Murmurs spread and grew in passion. As the shouts and catcalls peaked a shrill voice sounded clear above the disorder: “Death to tyrants – and an end to slavery!”

Kydd recognized Stallard’s high, intemperate voice.

Tyrell went rigid; the shouting died away. The Captain of Marines barked an order, and the marines on each side slapped their muskets to the present, a storm of clicking in the sudden silence as they cocked their weapons.

The seamen shied at the sudden movement, unsure and fearful at developments. The officers on the poop in their blue, white and gold stood, legs apart, looking down, grave and silent.

Tyrell’s murderous expression did not falter. Slowly and deliberately he went down the side ladder alone to the quarterdeck and into the mass of seamen. Directly challenging with his eyes individuals on one side and the other, but never uttering a word, he passed through them, past the mainmast, then with a measured tread back along the other side. Kydd caught his darting glance – a fierce, dangerous glint that held the same intelligence he had seen before. Unchecked by any movement, Tyrell made his way to the opposite ladder and back up to the poop. Taking position dead center, he stopped, holding the still mass of men with his gaze for a long minute. “I don’t know who that fool was,” he roared, “but he’ll swing when I find him – and if he has any friends of like mind, they’ll dangle next to him.” His eyes flicked up the naked masts with the ease of long habit, and down again. “I’ll have no more of this nonsense,” he said, his fury in icy control. “We’re paid to fight the King’s enemies on the high seas, not pansy about in port! We sail to meet the French in a short while, and I mean to have this ship in fighting trim by then – and damn the blood of any knave who stands in my way! Hands to store ship!” The moment hung. Then, with sullen reluctance, by ones and twos, the men dispersed.

Kydd looked at Bowyer. The man still stood, his face a mask of sorrow. It was not hard to understand why: he was staring out over the mile or so of sea to the long stone landing place, and the colorful crowd gathering there. “It’ll be a long time afore we gets to see Spithead again, mate,” he said, in a low voice, and turning abruptly stepped firmly to the seaward side of the deck to join the brooding group of men at the forebrace bitts.

By the thump of the Admiral’s evening gun Duke William had completed taking in stores. Kydd’s back was seizing up with fatigue after the unaccustomed hours of drudgery manning the tackle falls used to sway in the innumerable forms of stores. Supper was a cheerless meal, with Whaley away in the gunner’s party and Doud nursing a wrenched shoulder. The inevitable acid barbs from Howell went unheeded in the depressing quiet and even Wong slumped over his meal.

Kydd noticed Bowyer’s set expression and, not liking to intrude, turned to Claggett. “We’s got good reason to feel aggrieved, lad. What yer don’t know is that Duke William’s been on the North Ameriky station for two years, ’n’ before that the Caribbee. She’s well due t’get a proper docking. When you’s at sea for years you gets druxy timber. See here…” He reached down and fumbled around in the gloomy recesses beneath the lashed muzzle of the gun. His hand came up with a dark substance. “This here is spirketting, believe it or not.” As far as Kydd could see it might have been so much forest mulch – a perfectly black piece of wood flecked with tiny white dots. Claggett squeezed it in his palm and a pool of brown-stained seawater formed on the table. “It runs fore ’n’ aft the whole ship. If you knows how a ship works at the seams in any kind of sea, you’d be powerful concerned ’s how even a First Rate’s goin’ to swim in the kinda blow you gets in Biscay in winter!” The seamed old face turned to Kydd. “You’ll’ve heard of what happened to the Royal George in the year ’eighty-two. A ship-o’-the-line same’s us, they didn’t see their way clear t’ givin’ her a good refit ’n’ the bottom fell clean outa her as she lay at her moorings, right here in Spithead.”

Long-faced, Bowyer fidgeted but listened as well.

“Admiralty says as how a land breeze overset her while heeled over fer a repair, but my cousin was cox’n’s mate aboard ’n’ he said as how there was a great loud cracking first, afore she went under.” His old eyes rested unseeingly on the ship’s side. “Took more’n a thousand souls with her, the women, the Admiral – they’re all down there together still, mate.”

The somber mood cast a pall, and Kydd made his excuses. He rose and made his way to the companionway. There was an ugly edge to the messdeck talk and he was troubled by it. He went up to the next gundeck. An argument had developed into a fight. Inside a tight ring of onlookers two men smashed into each other in brutal silence – meaty thuds, gasps and panting. It was not a match of skills: the transient flaring hatreds of the blood-smeared antagonists demanded immediate release. What chilled Kydd was that instead of the cheery crowds to be seen around any fights ashore, here the watchers growled and muttered against a glowering, dangerous quiet, taking long pulls from their grog and no joy in the action. He moved quickly to the ladder.

On the upper deck he saw that it was getting toward dusk, an overcast building overhead that brought with it a lowering, claustrophobic atmosphere. Lights were beginning to flicker ashore. The fitful offshore breeze carried out to him the scent of horses, mud and sea-coal smoke, the comfortable smells of land.

He stared hungrily at the shoreline, as he gripped one of the myriad ropes coming down to the ship’s side; his foot rested on the low fife-rail of the fo’c’sle.

His mind wandered across the small stretch of water to the odd few figures still waiting forlornly at the Sally Port. Farther along, washing fluttered among the tightly packed houses of Southsea and he could discern the ant-like movements of carts and people. Folk would be wending their way home now to a welcome by the hearth, and victuals worthy of a man. He remembered that at this time his mother would be at work on the Tuesday beef pie in the old kitchen at the back of the workshop. He and his father could always be sure of a fine hot meal, no matter how hard the day. In fact, he realized, if he were over there on the foreshore he could board the London stage. For a few silver coins he could be at the Angel post house in Guildford the same day, safe and sound, and telling his story.

He tore his gaze away from the tantalizing sight of land. All around the ship boarding nettings had been rigged and the rowguard in the pinnace pulled slowly around the vessel. On deck close by was the bowed figure of Buddles. Kydd felt a sudden burst of fellow feeling for the man, who was taking his plight so desperately hard. He moved over to greet him, but Buddles jerked around, staring at him from swimming eyes. He turned away to shuffle below, without a backward glance.

Kydd stared over the water. Who could say how long he would have to wait before he saw his family again? It was quite possible that his ignorance of the sea might cost him his life in some accident, or perhaps there would be a great battle… Emotion welled up. He clutched at the rope.

“Why, Tom, you’re giving no mind to that cat-blash now, are ye?” Bowyer’s voice was gentle, and his hand came to rest on Kydd’s shoulder.

Unable to speak, Kydd brushed aside the gesture and continued to stare obstinately out to shore.

Bowyer held his ground. “Damn me eyes, I must be a sad dog not to see when a man’s suffering the blue devils. Do ye -”

“I don’t give a tuppenny damn!” Kydd said thickly. “Go t’ hell for all I care!” He could not look at Bowyer. Shouts and harsh laughter floated up from the deck below, and Kydd burst out with a curse. As he tried to control himself, he felt an arm around his shoulders, just as his father had done not so very long ago. Then it had been in the matter of a worthless doxy, now it was an older seaman touched by his unhappiness.

Kydd pulled himself together with a great effort. “There wasn’t need for that, Joe – I’m sorry.”

“That’s all right, me old shipmate,” Bowyer said.

“But if I can get on land over there, I can post to Guildford in just one day!” he babbled, and saw a shadow pass over the sailor’s face. “That’s not to say…” He realized that whatever he said would be either empty or a lie.

Bowyer laughed softly. “Yer folks still in Guildford, then?”

Kydd nodded. “Where’s yourn, Joe?”

Bowyer walked over to the gratings in the center of the deck. “Come on over the galley here, mate – it’s a mort warmer.” They sat companionably, well placed on the gratings above the warmth of the ovens from the decks below.

“Your kin, Joe?”

“Well, I’m one o’ Jonas Hanway’s boys,” Bowyer said simply. “Don’t rightly know m’ dad, ’n’ when I was a nipper m’ mum gave me up to Hanway’s Marine Society fer to go to sea.”

“When was that?”

“When I was eight – bin at sea since.”

“And you’ve never lived on the land all that time?”

“Never felt the need to.”

Kydd felt a surge of bitterness. “Well, you c’n be infernal sure I feel the need. I didn’t ask to be part o’ this stinkin’ world. Being taken by the press like a common damn prigger, and thrown on board like -”

“Hold hard, young ’un!” Bowyer’s forehead was uncharacteristically creased. “Way I sees it, you has just two things you c’n do about it – get yourself into a fret all the time over what can’t be undone, or do somethin’ about it. What I means is, there’s no chance you’ll get yourself back to Guildford any time soon, so you’ll be spendin’ all your time on board. You then has the choice – stay a landman and take all the shite going, or learn to be a sailorman and live a life!”

Kydd did not answer.

“There’s worse things to be – them poor bastards in red coats carryin’ a musket, why, no warm hammock to go to end of day, no reg’lar vittles of any kind, and marchin’ with a humpin’ great pack thing when they want ter go anywheres.” He watched Kydd looking moodily over the fast darkening stretch of water, the rowguard pinnace creeping unseen past his line of sight. “An’ we get the chance for prize money! Know the Flag and Anchor in Southsea? No? I’ll interdooce yer to the landlord. Taut hand o’ the watch, as was. When he was a younker he shipped as able seaman in Active when they took the Hermione, Spanish frigate – earned ’emselves more’n three hundred years’ pay in one hour, that arternoon! Only a score of years old ’n’ he buys himself his own taphouse!” He knew he had Kydd’s attention now. “We don’t say as how it happens to all, but we get a good fight and it’s gun money an’ head money…” Bowyer allowed his eyes to gaze out dreamily. “’Cos it depends on yer rate, how much you get.” He made himself more comfortable, leaning on his elbow over the gratings to catch more warmth. “But then money ain’t all. For a man o’ character, why, he c’n learn more about the way of things from what he sees in foreign parts than ever he could in stayin’ by the fireside ’n’ readin’ books. Me, I’m just an old tarry-breeks, but me first voyage as able seaman was in Resolution in ’seventy-nine – Cap’n Cook that was. Voyage of discovery, Tom – the Great South Sea, ice islands in the Ar’tic, the women on O’Whyee. Their menfolk did for ’im, you know, on the strand, when he couldn’t git back to the longboat where we was at.”

It was almost completely dark now, but somehow it fitted the mood. Light from the decks below came through the gratings, gently patterning Bowyer’s face in alternating squares of light and dark, a slight breeze whiffling his thinning hair.

“You’re bred t’ the sea, Joe. I just know… how to make wigs.”

“Don’t you pay no mind to that!” Bowyer said warmly. “A sailor has it inside, just a-waitin’ to have it woken up in him – I could tell, first time I clapped peepers on yer, Tom, you has the makin’s.” He gave a slow smile. “Like it’s said, ‘Begotten in the galley and born under a gun. Every hair a rope yarn, every finger a fishhook and ’is blood right good Stockholm tar!’ ”

Kydd laughed.

“Yeah – you’re quick on your feet, got a good headpiece on yer, ’n’ you keep your eyes open. And you’ve the build for it,” Bowyer said. “An’ you have an eddication – means a lot these modern days. I’d be gunner’s mate be now if I could figure them books.”

Kydd sat back. There was some truth in Bowyer’s words. Clearly, if he was to be imprisoned aboard for some indefinite time it made sense to avoid staying at the bottom of the heap. But he was rated on board as the lowest form of life, a landman. Without an academy for sailoring how could he qualify upward?

Bowyer seemed to sense his thoughts. “You make your own chances, cuffin. You show willin’, you’ll get yer start.” He smiled broadly. “Like this. Tomorrow forenoon, when it’s part-of-ship for priddying down, we goes together to the maintop – up there, Tom! First step is leavin’ the deck to the land toggies, and go where a sailor goes – aloft!”

Kydd glanced up at the arrogant thrust of the great black masts and spars against the cold dusk clouds and his heart quailed.

“Haaands turn to, part-of-ship! All the hands!”

The afterguard part-of-ship in the form of Elkins was waiting for them the next morning, and under the eye of the boatswain and Lieutenant Tewsley he lost no time in dispatching the men in parties to their respective tasks.

“Bowyer, brace pendants with Pinto,” he ordered.

Glancing at Kydd, Bowyer said to Elkins mildly, “Be a chance to get Kydd aloft, learn some ropes – can I have him up there?”

“No,” said Elkins shortly, “you’ve got Pinto. Kydd stays on the holystones.”

Bowyer paused. “Then, Mr. Elkins, I’d be obliged if you’d allow me to join him.”

Elkins looked at him, astonished. His jaw hardened. “You’re a clinking fool, Joe, always were, so get down on yer hunkers and get scrubbin’ with ’im, then.”

Kydd looked up from rolling up his duck trousers to see Bowyer do the same next to him. “I thought…”

“This life, you can’t always get what yer want – but you can learn to take it. Move over, mate.”

Captain Caldwell had made it quite plain that he regarded efficiency and smartness to be equivalents. As First Lieutenant, Tyrell would be judged on appearances, and this would mean at the very least continual hard labor for all. The gunner’s party toiled at their pieces; each cannon would receive close attention from canvas and brickdust, then be blackened with a shining mixture of lampblack, beeswax and turpentine. This left little time for vital work on vent and bore, or even chipping roundshot.

And, of course, there was the appearance of the decks. While the sea- men were aloft, the unskilled laborers of the sea rolled up their trousers, and with decks well a-swim from the wash-deck hose, and with sand liberally scattered over the planking, they began the soul-grinding misery of holystoning the decks. In a line the men moved from forward, on hands and knees and pushing a book-shaped piece of sandstone. Thomas Kydd was one of them. Twenty yards of the quarterdeck on, his knees were red and sore with the gritty sand and little splinters, but his chief suffering was the bitter pain from the icy water that pulsed relentlessly from the hoses carrying detritus to the scuppers. It was monotonous, painful and humiliating. It was only the uncomplaining presence of Bowyer that kept him going through the long morning.

At four bells the job was at last complete to the satisfaction of Tyrell, but there was no relief. One by one the articles of running rigging – the operating machinery of the ship – needed to be checked for chafing and in many cases re-reeved, end for end. Nothing prepared Kydd for the effort this would take. Even the lightweight lines of the topgallants and royals were nevertheless hundreds of feet long and in themselves were an appreciable deadweight. The same with the blocks – the big pulleys through which ropes were hauled: these were unexpectedly immense when seen close to, on deck. One top block was so massive it took four men to lift it to its fall for hoisting. With agile topmen at the summit of the towering mast tending the sheaves of the blocks, it needed the humble laborers to manhaul ropes, seized to a girt-line, up the entire height of the mainmast.

Unexpectedly, Elkins bellowed across the deck. “Bowyer – in the maintop, clew garnets.” He paused just long enough to be noticed. “Kydd – get up there with him.”

“Come with me, Tom lad,” Bowyer said quietly, “and be sure and look where you want ter go, never back where you’ve been.”

In one move, Kydd’s view of his place in the scheme of things was changed. After a lifetime of living and moving in two dimensions, he was now to join the select band of those who would know the third.

He gulped and followed, aware of the eyes of his previous fellow laborers on him.

Bowyer crossed to the side of the ship, seized the aftermost shroud and in a little half jump hoisted himself up on to the broad top of the bulwark. He swung down to the main channel on the outside of the hull, the true beginning of the tracery of rope ladder leading up aloft. “Let’s be havin’ yer!” he called.

Kydd grabbed the same shroud and kicked his legs up. To his mortification he found that with feet correctly on the bulwark, he hung backwards over the deck from the inward-sloping shroud, unable to move around to the outer side.

Bowyer’s hand reached for his collar and with surprising strength pulled Kydd upright and around. They stood together on the bulwark. Even these few feet of altitude were sufficient to alter forever his notion of the ship. Every man on deck now was lower than he; the deck itself was observably in plan, and he felt a curious pleasure at the satisfying curve of the deck-line as it swept far forward.

“Right, now, Tom, you goes first, ’n’ I’ll be right behind you.”

Bowyer stepped aside, and there was nothing now before Kydd but the main shrouds leading up to a final focus – the big platform of the main fighting top.

He addressed himself to the venture. The thick shrouds soaring up had thin lines across them to form a ladder. He began to climb, feet feeling shakily for the thin rope, looking obediently upward.

“Don’t put yer hands on the ratlines,” Bowyer called from below him, “use the shrouds – they’ll never give way on yer.”

Kydd had a brief but intense picture of the thinner line snapping in his clutching hands, letting him hurtle backwards to his doom. Nervously he moved to grip tightly the thick black vertical shrouds, shiny with use.

Despite himself, he became aware of his increasing height, the shrouds on the other side getting closer, the deck dropping away below. He continued upward, foot finding the next ratline above while he hung on grimly; a push upward and a pause at the new level while his other foot relocated; then moving his hands gingerly one by one.

He knew he was not moving efficiently, but at least he was safe like that. His leg muscles burned with fatigue and he stopped for a moment to rest.

The shrouds shivered and Bowyer appeared on the broad span of shrouds next to him.

“I’m fine, Joe,” Kydd said.

“Yeah – but watch that feller over there.” Bowyer was pointing to the opposite ratlines. A seaman was mounting the shrouds in a fast, economic swing. “See how he uses his hands to pull himself up, only rests his feet. Doesn’t go at it like he was climbin’ stairs.”

Kydd watched the graceful continuity of the sailor’s movements; a fluid motion he could now sense was achieved by hauling forcefully on alternate hands, the feet just following. He tried it; the transfer of effort to the hands felt awkward at first, but he could feel the potential for a more connected movement. He persevered, his concentration on the required actions diverting his mind from his situation.

The main top approached with a reality it never had from the deck, foursquare and solid, with a big lanthorn rearing up oddly from the after edge. His arms ached. He knew now where the best seamen got their deep chests. Stopping for a breather, he idly looked down.

It was a mistake. What he saw was an ugly distortion – an impossibly narrow deck on which the people moving about it had become flattened, elongated disks, their feet blipping out in front of them like penguins’.

But what was so hard to take was the sheer vertigo of being at a killing height while clinging halfway up a vertical surface. Animal instinct made him freeze, pinned helplessly somewhere between heaven and earth. He clung fiercely, his eyes closed.

A shaking in the shrouds told him that Bowyer had arrived next to him. Whatever Bowyer said, Kydd vowed to himself that he would not release his hold. Perhaps Bowyer could work some rescue plan to lower him to the deck on a rope.

“Bit of a hard beat to wind’d, first time aloft,” Bowyer mused. “Um, ever you gets in the situation you needs yer bearings fast. What I does, I looks at where I’m at first.” He waited. “These here shrouds, Tom, very curious ropes. See here, they’ve got four strands, not yer usual three. And they’re laid up with the sun, not like your anchor cable, which you may’ve noticed is laid up agin the sun.”

Kydd allowed his eyes to slit open. Inches before his eyes was one of the shrouds, ordinary enough in itself, a stout rope several inches thick. It was tarred but this close he could see every microscopic detail of where it had been whitened by the weather. On impulse, he pressed his face to it, feeling its sturdy roughness against his skin and smelling the rich odor of tar and sea salt.

“’N’ up there, you gets a good view of the catharpins. You c’n see there, Tom, how we use ’em to bowse in the shrouds – keeps the lee rigging well in when yer ship rolls.”

Taking no chances, Kydd moved his gaze slowly upward, following the line of shrouds to where they disappeared into a large hole in the black underneath of the top.

“Get a move on, you heavy-arsed dogs!” Elkins’s impatient bawl carried up clearly. It only served to make Kydd hold on tighter.

“Shall we go a bit farther, matey?” Bowyer said, inching a little higher.

Kydd willed the movement, but it stalled in a backwash of fear.

At that moment into his consciousness seeped an awareness of angels. It was a pure sound that enveloped his soul. He listened, enraptured. It was a light tenor, and it soared so sweetly that he could swear it belonged to the upper celestial regions.

Life is chequr’d-toil and pleasure

Fill one up the various measure;

Hark! the crew with sunburnt faces

Chanting Black-eyed Susan’s graces…

Bowyer chuckled. “That’ll be Ned Doud. Quite th’ songbird is our Ned. Let’s go visit, Tom.”

The spell had been broken. With his heart in his mouth, Kydd followed Bowyer up.

They passed under the shadow of the great fighting top, then up through the large aperture next to the mast and its complexity of massive jeer blocks and heavy rope seizings, to emerge onto the platform of the top itself.

“Well, Joe,” said Doud happily, “never thought to see you come up by the lubber’s hole.” He was sitting cross-legged, making a plaited bunt gasket using his own fox yarns.

“Came up to see what the noise was, did we not, shipmate?” Bowyer said, but Kydd had taken a deep breath and was looking about him in giddy exhilaration.

The maintop was impressive – it could take twenty men comfortably on its decked surface, and was bounded at the after end by a rail and nettings, and on both sides by the next stage of shrouds stretching up to the topmast.

Cautiously Kydd got to his feet and went to the edge. Although it was only some seventy feet above the deck, it felt like a separate world, one of peace and solitude. Farther out there were more ships at anchor, and beyond a noticeable increase in the depth of the countryside.

“Bear a fist, will you, Ned, reevin’ the clewgarnet,” Bowyer asked.

He slipped out of sight over the side. Kydd went over to see him pass from a downward hanging position on the futtock shrouds to drop to the main yard, with the dull white canvas of the course carefully furled in a fine harbor stow above it. Bowyer lay over the yard before swinging down, his feet finding the footrope, and moved outward to where the clewgarnet blocks hung below the yard.

“Watch yer back, sailor!” Doud said, pushing past Kydd. He was watching the clewgarnet rise from below, suspended on a fly block next to the mainmast as it was hauled up by the laborers on deck. Feeling like a yokel on his first trip to town, Kydd admired the skill and cool assurance of the two as they worked, thoroughly at home in this unfathomable complication of spars and cordage.

At one point when Doud and Bowyer were both out on the yard they asked him to pass the clewgarnet down to its second stoppering on the hauling line, out to the blocks. This involved the team sharing the task of passing it along, right out to the end of the yard where the clew of the furled course now was, and bringing it back again to where it was clinched to the mainyard.

Kydd’s part was not onerous, but he had to move about the top and give his full attention to the whole picture. He sensed that this was no special task, but when they finally stepped down from the shrouds to the deck at last, he was elated. Nothing could have stopped his foolish laugh and the casual swagger.

Elkins was waiting. “So you knows a bit o’ sailorin’, then, Kydd – get below, my respects t’ the boatswain, and we needs a sky hook to sway up the kelson.”

Concentrating on the message, Kydd turned to go. “Where -?”

“Forrard on the orlop, you grass-combin’ bugger. Get goin’, sharpish like, we got work to do.”

The boatswain pursed his lips. “The sky hook, eh? Well, lad, that’s going to be difficult.” His hand rasped on his dark-shadowed chin. “I gave it out, as I recollects, to Mr. Walker for to raise a mousing. If you finds Matthew Walker, you’ll find your sky hook, lad.”

Nobody seemed to know how to find Matthew Walker and even appeared to find his search entertaining. Remembering Elkins’s sharp orders, Kydd hurried on. It was Dan Phelps who finally came to the rescue.

“They’re gullin’ yer, matey – the cook, he’s yer Matthew Walker!” Gratefully Kydd accepted directions to the galley.

The cook scowled. He was a big man, seeming not to notice the absence of a lower leg, which, with the grievous black ingrained wound on the side of his face, was legacy of a bursting gun, terrible pain and a saw on the cockpit table.

“What the hell are you two a-grinnin’ at?” he snarled at his mates, who were deep inside the colossal copper vats, sanding and sniggering. He turned back to Kydd. “See ’ere, me old Jack Tar, you tell yer Mr. Elkins as how I’ve a sea pie to raise for damn near eight hunnerd men, and how does he expect me to do that without yon sky hook?”

Kydd toiled up the fore companionway, aware that the seven bells striking meant that it was a half-hour to noon, and therefore soon dinnertime. From nowhere a boatswain’s mate appeared at the head of the ladder above, blocking Kydd’s progress. He grinned evilly at Kydd before raising his silver call and emitting an appalling blast of sound. “All the haaands! Hands lay aft to witness punishment!” he bellowed at Kydd, then mock doffed his hat with its Duke William picked out in gold and red, and clattered past to the next deck.

Joining the streaming throng, Kydd found himself in the familiar area of the quarterdeck between the ship’s wheel and the mainmast. He had been jostled to the front of the assembled company so his view of the proceedings would be immediate.

The marines were formed up across the poop, but the officers were in a group before the break of the poop facing the men. A clear area existed between them.

The Master-at-Arms and his corporals flanked two seamen, one of whom Kydd recognized as one of the fighters of the previous evening. He had bloodshot eyes but carried himself watchful and erect. The other he did not recognize, a slight gray vole of a man whose darting eyes were his only concession to fear.

Kydd searched about, looking for Bowyer, but could not see him. With the oppressive tension draining his newly won reserves of confidence, he needed some other to share his disquiet. The only one he knew was next to the ship’s side, arms folded and with an impregnable air of detachment. Renzi.

Transferring his attention back to the little group near the wheel, he was in time to see Tyrell appear from the cabin spaces. The officer stumped to the center of the clear area, looking sharply about him. “Rig the gratings,” he growled.

A brace of carpenter’s mates pushed through the crowd of seamen behind Kydd, dragging two of the main hatch gratings aft. One was placed upright against the poop railings and lashed tightly. The other served as a scaffold for the victim to stand upon.

A boatswain’s mate touched his forehead to Tyrell. “Gratings rigged, sir”.

Tyrell glared around at the men and without referring to his paper snapped, “Caleb Larkin, cooper’s mate.”

The gray man shuffled forward. He blinked and looked sideways at Tyrell, but said nothing.

Tyrell nodded at the Master-at-Arms.

“Was found drunk and incapable, sir; did piss in the waist under cover of dark, sir.” The piggy eyes looked at the man without particular expression.

There was a ripple of movements, a few murmurs. The tall boatswain’s mate at the side of the gratings stroked his long red bag.

Larkin seemed resigned, and continued his odd sideways stare at Tyrell.

“An unspeakable act, you ill-looking dog! Have you anything to say?”

The man thought for a moment, then mutely shook his head.

Tyrell let the moment hang. “One week’s stoppage of grog, Master-at-Arms’ black list one month.”

Larkin’s head rose in astonishment. His shoulders twitched as if throwing off the evil threat of the lash, and dared a triumphant look forward at his friends. Astonished looks showed that his incredible escape was not lost on anyone.

The murmuring died away as Tyrell consulted his paper. “Patrick Donnelly, quarter gunner.” He looked up and waited for absolute silence before nodding crisply at the Master-at-Arms.

“Fighting when off watch, sir.”

There were louder mutters this time. The going tariff for fighting would be a spell in the bilboes or a lengthy mastheading in this cold weather. The tall boatswain’s mate would be disappointed of his prey.

“How long have you been quarter gunner, Donnelly?” Tyrell began mildly.

Unsure how to play it, Donnelly muttered something.

“Speak up, man!” Tyrell snapped.

“Two year, near enough,” Donnelly repeated. He had the unfortunate quirk of appearing surly when being questioned in public.

“Two years – a petty officer for two years, so you know well enough that a petty officer does not engage in brawling. Disrated. You’re turned before the mast and will shift your hammock tonight.”

Donnelly’s dogged look created a wave of barely concealed muttering. This was hard. The reason for the aimless flaring and fisticuffs was well known: Donnelly had a sweetheart in Portsmouth.

Tyrell watched the men. His hard face gave no quarter. “Collaby!”

His clerk hurried over with a thin black leatherbound book. Tyrell took it.

“Articles of War!” he thundered.

“Off hats!” the Master-at-Arms bellowed. In a flurry of movement the entire assembly removed their headgear – the officers’ cocked hats, the round hats of the petty officers and the amazing variety of the seamen’s head coverings, ranging from shapeless raw woolen articles to the stout traditional tarpaulin hats.

In grim stillness all stood to hear the strict law of the Service. The sea breeze plucked the hair on hundreds of bare heads.

The words were flung out savagely. “‘Article twenty-three. If any person in the Fleet shall quarrel or fight with any other person in the Fleet, or use reproachful or provoking speech or gestures’ and so on and so forth, as well you know, ‘shall suffer such punishment as the offense shall deserve, and a court-martial shall impose.’ ”

He slammed the book shut.

“On hats!”

“You shall have a court-martial, should you wish it. Have you anything to say?”

Donnelly looked stupefied. This was no choice at all – a court-martial could lead anywhere, from admonishment to a noose at the yardarm.

“No? Then it’s half a dozen for fighting.”

A fleeting smile appeared on the boatswain’s mate’s face, and he lifted his bag.

A wave of unrest went through the mass of men like wind through a cornfield. This was ferocious justice.

Tyrell waited, with a terrible patience. “And another dozen for the utter disgrace you have brought on your position, you damned rogue!”

Donnelly’s head whipped round – apart from the fact that eighteen lashes was far above the usual, his “offense” had no standing in law, however useless it would be to argue.

“Strip!” There was a chilling finality in the order.

Donnelly stared at Tyrell, his eyes wild. He stripped to the waist in deliberate, fierce movements, throwing the garments to the deck, stalked over to the gratings and spreadeagled himself against the upright one, his face pressed to the wooden checkerboard.

“Seize him up!”

The quartermasters tied his hands to the grating with lengths of spun yarn and retired. The boatswain’s mate advanced, taking the cat-o’-nine-tails from the bag. He took position a full eight feet away to one side and drew the long deadly lashes through his fingers, experimentally sweeping it back to ensure that there was enough clear space to swing it.

Kydd stared across the few yards of empty deck to the man’s pale, helpless body. His eyes strayed over to Renzi, who still stood impassive and with his arms folded. His anger rose at the man’s lack of simple compassion and when he looked back at Donnelly he tried despairingly to communicate the sympathy he felt.

“Do your duty!”

Kydd was startled by the sudden furious beating of a marine drum on the poop. It volleyed and rattled frantically as the boatswain’s mate drew back the cat in a full arm sweep. At the instant it flew downward the drum beat stopped, so the sickening smack of the blow came loud and clear.

Donnelly did not cry out, but his gasp was high and choked. The nine tails had not only left long bruised weals where they landed, but at every point where the tail ended, blood began to seep.

“One!” called the Master-at-Arms.

The drum began its fierce noise again; Donnelly turned his head to the side and fixed Tyrell with a look of such hatred that several of the officers started.

Again the whipping blow swept down. It brought a grunt that seemed to Kydd to have been dragged from the very depths of the man’s being.

“Two!”

Even two blows was sufficient to make the man’s back a raw striping of bloody welts, the animal force of the blows visibly as violent as a kick from a horse, slamming the body against the grating.

“Three!”

Donnelly did not shift his gaze or his expression from Tyrell’s face. Blood appeared at his mouth where he had bitten his lip in agony, trickling slowly down in two thin streams.

“Four!”

The horror of Donnelly’s torment tore at Kydd. It went on and on in endless sequence; the lower grating was now spattered with blood, and when the boatswain’s mate drew back the cat for the next stroke, combing his fingers through the tails, bloody gobbets dropped from them.

Donnelly’s eyes flickered now at each blow and started rolling upward, his grunts turning to smothered animal cries. His back was in places a roiling mess like a butcher’s cut of raw liver.

“Twelve!” The Master-at-Arms looked questioningly over to Tyrell.

“Quentin!” Tyrell snapped, utterly unmoved.

The tall boatswain’s mate surrendered his position and cat to Quentin, who was left-handed – this would enable the stripes to be crossed.

Before he could begin his grisly work, Donnelly’s eyes rolled entirely out of sight with a soft despairing groan, and he hung down.

The surgeon thrust over and examined him. Donnelly was semiconscious, occasionally rolling his head about and issuing tiny childlike whimpers.

“Sir, this man’s -”

“Souse him!”

“Sir, I must insist! There is -”

“Then get below if you must. I will not have my discipline questioned. Carry on, Quentin.”

A fire bucket of seawater bearing the cipher of King George was produced. Measuring his distance, Quentin dashed the full contents against the man’s back.

Donnelly shrieked just once and hung senseless.

A midshipman crumpled to the deck.

Tyrell scowled. “Cut him down,” he grunted.