Quarterdeck (7 page)

“Thank ye, no, I’ll take care of it,” Kydd said, with a smile.

There was nothing too personal in his possessions, but the thought of a stranger invading his privacy was an alien notion.

“Sir, I can do it,” Tysoe said softly. Something in his voice told Kydd that he should let the man go about his business. Then he realised that, of course, Tysoe needed to know the location of everything if he was to keep his master well clothed and fettled.

“Well, just be steady with the octant,” Kydd admonished him.

“Lieutenant Kydd, I believe!” Renzi chuckled as he entered the wardroom.

Kydd’s heart was full, but he was still unsettled by his unfortunate welcome to the ship and could only manage, “Aye, do I see Lieutenant Renzi before me?”

Renzi dumped a number of well-used order books on the

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table. “Well, my friend, it does seem this is a task it would be prudent to begin immediately, if not earlier.”

Regulations. Orders. Directions. Covering every possible situation. Each in careful phrasing ensuring that every subordinate in the chain of command would be in no doubt that if any disagreeable situation arose it would not be the fault of his superior.

From the Admiralty:

Article:
The Captain is to demand from the Clerk of the Survey a book,
with the inventory of the stores committed to the charge of the Boatswain
and Carpenter . . .

Article:
If any be heard to curse or blaspheme the name of God, the
Captain is strictly required to punish them for every offence by causing
them to wear a wooden collar . . .

Article:
The Lieutenant is expected that he do provide himself with the
necessary instruments, maps and books of navigation, and he is to keep a
journal according to the form set down and at the end of the voyage shall
deliver copies thereof signed by himself into the Admiralty and Navy
Offi ces . . .

Article:
No commander shall infl ict any punishment upon a seaman beyond twelve lashes upon his bare back with a cat of nine tails, according
to the ancient practice of the sea . . .

The commander in chief of the North Sea Fleet had his own instructions—from the timing of the evening gun when at anchor, to conduct when in sight of the enemy—all in all a dizzying succession of domestic detail, mixed with grave admonitions to duty.

Kydd sensed movement outside.

“Well, now, if I’m not mistook, here’s our fourth and fi fth lootenants!” It was a pleasant-faced young offi cer, rubbing his hands with cold.

“Ah, Thomas Kydd, sir, at your service.”

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“Well, then, my dear sir, I am your humble and obedient Gervase Adams, third of this barky—was junior luff in
Raven,
sadly no more.” Kydd shook hands, grateful for the friendliness.

Adams turned to Renzi. “Give you joy of your step, Renzi,” he said formally, holding out his hand. Renzi had served for a small time in
Tenacious
as master’s mate: he’d been part of the ship’s company at Camperdown. Kydd realised that they assumed his origins to be a senior midshipman promoted, not someone from forward, as he was.

Adams looked over Kydd’s shoulder at the books. “This is what you should be boning up on, m’ boy.” He tapped one marked “Captain’s Orders.” “This owner is new to me, but if he’s running to form he’ll expect you to have it by heart in a day—‘This is the word of the Lord: hear ye and obey! ’ ”

There was a knock at the door and Adams crossed to answer it. “L’tenant Kydd! Seems fi rst luff has need of the solace of your company at this time.”

Kydd hesitated, partly out of concern for the reception he would receive from the captain’s deputy, partly out of confusion as to where to go. He knew the fi rst lieutenant’s cabin would be here in the wardroom, the largest one to starboard and right in the stern, but it was unoccupied.

“In harbour he sets up shop in the coach next to the captain’s cabin, you’ll fi nd.” Adams paused. “Bryant the Beatifi c. The men call him Bull—last ship a frigate, and he wants his own command so bad it stinks. I’d steer small with him, Kydd, to be sure.”

“Sit, sir.” Bryant fi nished his scrawling. “So, Mr Kydd, you’re the fi fth and junior. I’ve put you with Mr Bampton as second offi cer- of-the-watch until you can prove yourself. And I’ll have you know, sir, that if you don’t—and that damn soon—I’ll see you broke. That I promise. Understand?”

“Sir.”

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He consulted his paper. “And you’ll take the afterguard, where you’re under my eye.” He looked up. “Heard you came aft the hard way—and heard else—you’ll not be shy in a fi ght an’ I like that. Now, you bat square with me, and you’ll do. Right?”

“Aye, sir.” Kydd was not sure what he was implying, and answered cautiously. The man, with his aggressive, out-thrust jaw and direct, almost angry manner, unsettled him.

“Ah, yes—and you’ll be signal lootenant, o’ course.”

“But, sir, I—”

“Then you’ll learn, damn it, like we all did!” Bryant snapped.

“You’ve got a signal midshipman, Rawson, and two steady hands on the bunting. Do y’ want a wet nurse as well?”

“I’ll do m’ duty right enough.” Kydd felt himself reddening.

Bryant eased back in his chair. “Let’s see. You were entered as a landman in ’ninety-three, then shipped in
Artemis
frigate around the world, did a few years in the Caribbean and came back a master’s mate. Earned their lordships’ approbation in the late mutiny at the Nore, and didn’t disgrace yourself at Camperdown.” He slapped the papers back into their pack. “I’m sure you’ll do your duty, Mr Kydd.” He rose. “Now, keep station on me—it’s a new wardroom, we need to make our number to each other.”

The long table was laid with a starched white cloth and silver was much in evidence. It was close on four o’clock, supper time; aboard ship it was always taken considerably earlier than on land.

Kydd lost Bryant in a swirl of offi cers as old friends warmly greeted each other and new ones respectfully made themselves known. Renzi was deep in conversation with a plainly dressed man who had a curiously neat and sensitive face. Kydd made to cross to him, but a glass was thrust into his hand, and Adams’s pleasant face appeared. “A tincture with you, m’ friend,” he said,
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leaning back while a seaman politely plied a bottle. The wine was deep and red, and eased Kydd’s trepidation.

“Your very good health, sir,” Kydd said. Adams smiled, then turned to an older lieutenant, but before he could speak, Bryant, attended by a steward, took the head of the table, his back to the stern windows.

“We sit now,” warned Adams, and led Kydd quickly to the opposite end of the table, to one side of the thickness of the mizzen mast growing up at the end. Then he swung round deftly and sat opposite.

A buzz of talk arose. Bryant roared down the table, “Wine with you, Mr Kydd!”

The table fell quiet and Kydd caught covert glances in his direction. He tried to gather his wits. “C-confusion to the French!”

he called, raising his glass to Bryant. The words seemed weak and theatrical after the hearty oaths of seamen.

The marine captain raised his glass and declaimed drily, “And to ourselves—as no one else is likely to concern themselves with our welfare.”

“Damn right!” Bryant said vigorously, and drank deeply, then held up his empty glass. Talk began again, but Bryant banged a spoon on the table. “Gentlemen!” he demanded loudly. “Today sees
Tenacious
with her company of offi cers complete. We’re in commission, and we’ll be rejoining the North Sea Fleet very shortly. I believe it’s not too soon to make our acquaintance of each other.”

Kydd could hear a bottle being opened out of sight as he positioned his glass. He was grateful to the wine for settling his appre hensions.

“I’m your premier. My last ship was
Thetis,
thirty-eight, in the Indian Ocean, where we saw not much o’ the French worth a spit. I hope to see some better sport before long.” He pitched his voice to the older lieutenant. “Now you, sir.”

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51

“Bampton, second luff, only offi

cer surviving after

Camperdown. Served two years with the North Sea Fleet in
Tenacious
before,” he added drily.

“Ah, was you at the Nore mutiny?” the marine wanted to know.

“Yes.” Kydd froze. “And no. I was set ashore by the mutinous villains—but had the pleasure later of seeing ’em at a yardarm.”

He gave a thin smile and sipped his wine.

Bryant’s gaze slipped to Adams, who took up his cue.

“Gentlemen, you see before you one Gervase Adams, relict of the
Raven,
eighteen, fi r-built and cast ashore. Take heed all ye who would place Baltic fi r before good British oak . . .”

“And?”

Renzi’s manner was perfect: his easy affability brought approving grunts from around the table. He raised his glass in Kydd’s direction. “Might I bring forward my particular friend Thomas Kydd, whom you see before you as junior aboard, but whose shining parts his modesty forbids him to mention. His actions in thwarting a fearful case of barratry while still a child of the sea is well remarked, and I owe my continued existence to his acting forcefully in a curious circumstance on an island in the Great South Sea. He it is who conned the longboat in the Caribbean that preserved Lord Stanhope, and in all, gentlemen, we must conclude that Mr Kydd be truly accounted a favoured son of Neptune!”

Bryant rumbled loudly, “Hear him!”

Kydd reddened, and mumbled something. The table remained silent.

“That may be so,” exclaimed Adams, “but be advised, Kydd, it’s the custom of the service that if you’ve been around the Cape of Good Hope you’re entitled to one foot on the table. If you’ve doubled Cape Horn, both feet on the table, but nothing entitles you to spit to wind’d!”

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Julian Stockwin

There was warmth in the easy laughter that followed the old saw. Kydd had no idea that there was such a fraternity in the offi -

cers in their wardroom, and he longed to be truly one of them.

Introductions continued. The marine turned out to be a Captain Pringle, with a well-polished line in wardroom wit. It seemed that later a brand-new lieutenant of marines would also grace the ship.

Renzi’s new friend was a Mr Peake, a quietly spoken and erudite gentleman who would be their chaplain, and completing the company, further along, was one not in uniform but wearing a comfortable green-striped waistcoat. He announced himself la-conically as Pybus, the ship’s surgeon.

The wardroom dissolved into talk and laughter, and a violin out of sight behind the mizzen mast began a soft piece Kydd did not recognise. At the same time the smell of onion soup fi lled the air, and silently a bowl appeared before him. Simultaneously, a number of covered dishes arrived.

“Kydd, dear fellow, may I assist you to some of these fresh chops?” Adams said, as Kydd fi nished his soup. “Sadly, we shan’t see their like again, I fear, before we next make port.”

Behind the chair of each offi cer stood a seaman or marine to wait at table; Tysoe was at the back of Kydd. Adams waited until he had withdrawn to see to Kydd’s glass. “That old blacka-moor you have there, come down in the world since he was
valet
de chambre
to Codrington, who, you might recollect, died of an apo plexy in our very great cabin.” He leaned forward. “You don’t have to stay with the old fellow—ask Pringle for a marine, they know the sea service.”

Kydd looked round at the other servants. There was none who appeared to be above thirty; Tysoe had substantial grey in his bushy hair. Having seen the scrimmages that sometimes took place as servants jostled to see their masters’ needs met fi rst, he had his doubts that Tysoe would hold his own. But something

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53

about the man’s quiet dignity touched Kydd. There were advantages to youth, but different ones with maturity and, besides, were they not both outsiders? “Er, no, I’ll keep Tysoe,” Kydd answered.

He saw the glow of contentment in the others as his eye roved over the animated offi cers. Eddying talk rose and fell, then lulled. He heard Bampton call down to him, his voice studied and casual: “Kydd, something or other tells me you’re no stranger to the lower deck. Can this be right?”

Bryant frowned. The table fell quiet, and faces turned to Kydd.

He took a deep breath. “True, very true, sir. I was untimely taken up as a pressed man and, unable t’ run, I fi nd myself still here.”

Awkward grins surfaced, and Pringle murmured to the table in general, “That won’t please the owner—not by half, it won’t.”

Bampton persisted: “Was this not alarming? For your family is what I mean.”

“Damn it all!” Bryant exploded, glaring at Bampton. “We were promised fi ggy duff—where the devil is it?”

It was a pearly calm winter’s day when Kydd appeared for duty on the deck of the man-o’-war, a King’s offi cer. After their pressed men had been claimed and come aboard, the ship’s company would be mustered by open list into divisions and Kydd would see his men for the fi rst time.

A hoy from the receiving ship came alongside in a fl urry of fl apping canvas and shouted orders. Kydd continued to pace the quarterdeck, the arrival of pressed men not his concern. Out of sight, in the waist below, the fi rst lieutenant would be setting up to receive them, rating the seamen by their skills and consigning the rest—landmen—to the drudgery of brute labour.

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