Kydd Page 7

  “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 di
rection 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.