Artemis - Kydd 02

by Julian Stockwin

  The smell of fresh powder smoke was pleasing to Kydd's senses — it was manly, keen and spoke of duty. He kept the brutish gun muzzle squarely on the tiny red flag and waited resolutely for his turn.

  The next vicious blang and rolling gunsmoke came from the gun next to him. He tensed. The smoke cleared and a splash appeared behind the mark and seventy feet to one side, a good shot at this range.

  'Number five gun - fire!'

  At the full extent of the lanyard Kydd sighted down the muzzle. It rose slowly to a wave, so he waited. It began to fall and he was teetering on the point of firing when some seaman's fine instinct made him hesitate. Sure enough a smaller, playful wave countered the first and the muzzle lifted slightly before resuming its downward sweep. He gave the lanyard a firm pull and after a brief hesitation his piece obediently thundered forth. Kydd arched his body and the maddened beast crashed to the rear in recoil, sending towering masses of gunsmoke downrange.

  'Stop yer vent!' He heard Stirk's shout dimly through ringing ears, and remembered that he had to stop the flow of eroding gases through the vent-hole. It was easily enough done, but he wanted to know where his shot had gone. Staring at the jauntily bobbing flag he willed his ball on. Magically a plume rose up, almost dead in line but sadly short.

  'Blast me eyes, but that was well done, mate,' Stirk said in admiration.

  Kydd looked at him in disbelief. His shot so far was the furthest away.

  'Never mind th' range — yer ball will take 'im on the ricochet. Not easy ter lay 'er true like that!'

  With a swelling pride, Kydd stepped back and rasped, 'Well, let's see some heavy in it, then, y' pawky lubbers!'

  'Yair — can't come soon enough fer me, Ol' England.' Cundall smoothed his shining black hair and stared morosely back at the tiny mirror, the only one the mess possessed.

  Kydd was sitting on his sea-chest to allow Renzi to finish tying off the end of his pigtail, now a quite respectable length again. At sea he wore it clubbed. The gun practice had broken the spell of his morbidity and he had managed to surround his sorrow with limits that enabled him to function on a daily basis.

  'You're quiet, Ned,' Kydd said, noticing Doud's unusual reserve.

  Doud looked up. 'What's ter say? All th' time we're swannin' around out this godforsaken side o' the world, some other frigate is a-snappin' up the prizes — sooner we're back 'n' doing what comes natural, better fer all.'

  Busily at work on a square wooden plate chopping herbs, Quashee unexpectedly spoke up. 'Yer may get yer wish earlier than you thinks, Ned.'

  'How so, yer big bastard?' Doud said, instantly curious.

  Quashee smiled. 'Has yer thought? We're touchin' at Manila. What if while we've bin away the Dons have gone ter war on the Frogs' side?'

  Cundall sneered. 'Then we gets ter take a few dozen fishin'-boats an' half a dozen merchant packets — which in course we can't take with us. Wake up ter yerself, yer ninny.'

  Quashee's smile grew broader. 'Then yer ain't heard of. . .'

  '. . . the Manila Galleon!' finished Petit loudly. All looked at him in astonishment. 'He's in the right of it, mates!' he said, his face animated. 'Fat an' fair, sails once a year from Acapulkee in Mexico fer Manila, stuffed to the gunnels with all the gold 'n' silver they rips fr'm their colonies.' On all sides around the mess table, eyes grew big. Petit continued, with great satisfaction, 'An' here she comes, sailin' in, all unsuspectin' that there's a state o' war, which we o' course are obliged to tell 'em.'

  Happy babbling broke out, but it was interrupted by a shout at the hatchway. 'Pass the word fer Thomas Kydd — Able Seaman Kydd, ahoy!'

  Kydd rose. 'Aye!'

  'Cap'n Powlett passes the word fer Thomas Kydd!'

  The mess fell silent and stared at Kydd. It was unusual to the point of incredible that the Captain would directly notice any of so lowly a station. Kydd's mind raced. As far as he was aware he had done nothing wrong and, anyway, daily discipline was the business of others. He hurried to the quarterdeck. 'The Captain will see you in his cabin/ Party said sharply.

  Sliding down the hatchway ladder, Kydd went aft to the broad cabin. Outside was a marine sentry. Kydd knocked carefully and heard an indistinct reply, which he took to be 'Enter.'

  Powlett was at his desk, as usual without a wig - he never wore one at sea. His close-cropped hair lent intensity to his demeanour.

  The cabin was neat and Spartan, the only concession to humanity a miniature of a woman on the bulkhead and below it another of an angelic child. The rest of the room was dominated by the squat bulk of a pair of six-pounders and a deeply polished chart table. Kydd stood before his captain, hat in hand, and waited.

  'Thank you, Kydd,' Powlett said, finishing writing. He jabbed the quill back into the ink-pot and leant back. 'I have a problem,' he said, in a tone that suggested problems didn't annoy him for long.

  'Sir.'

  'You may know we lost eleven men at Macao, seven by sickness.'

  Kydd did not know: he had had problems of his own at the time.

  'We can't replace men so easily in this part of the world.' He looked directly at Kydd. 'I've a mind to rate you quartermaster's mate. What do ye think of that?'

  Nothing had been further from his mind. And now - it was undreamt of! He would be a petty officer, admittedly one of the most junior aboard, but he had achieved a precious step up, he had . . .

  'Well?'

  'I'd like it fine, sir’ he stammered.

  'Then you are so rated. The first lieutenant will attend to your watch and station.' Powlett fixed Kydd with flinty eyes. 'You are a fine seaman - I can see this, which is why I gave you your step. You have a future, but you can be disrated just as easily. See that you are zealous in your work and stay away from the bottle, and you may have no fear of that.'

  'Aye aye, sir!' Kydd said.

  Quartermaster's mate - Petty Officer Kydd! He left the first lieutenant's cabin in a haze of joy. It was only a matter of stepping into a sick man's shoes, he rationalised, but his inner self smugly replied, Who cares?

  Then Sarah's image flashed before him, dampening his mood. He felt for her pain. Perhaps one day they could meet again in some other way ...

  Slowly his thoughts refocused. Whatever the reason, he was now rated a petty officer. His main duty would be on the quarterdeck, as mate to the quartermaster who had the conn under the officer in command — responsibility for the helm and helmsmen. A quartermaster owed his loyalty to the sailing master, who was probably the most sea professional of all aboard.

  Kydd wondered if it had been his skill at the wheel that had won him the post. He enjoyed his trick at the helm, feeling the waves trying playfully to slap the vessel off course and the live vibration of the sea transmitted up through the tiller-ropes, seeing the length of deck curving in at the bow far ahead of the helm, then gently rising and falling under his urging, the whole a connected symphony of motion. He sighed, and rejoined his mess.

  * * *

  'Quartermaster's mate - that makes you a petty officer,' said Petit seriously. 'Yes, it does.'

  'Then you'll be shiftin' your mess tonight?' Petit asked.

  Although new-rated, his status entitled him to join one of the senior messes, which were right aft and screened off by canvas. There were only three quartermaster's mates aboard so together they wouldn't make a mess, but he could join the quarter-gunners, the carpenter's crew, or even the elite captains of the tops.

  'No, mate, I think I'll stay,' he said uneasily.

  'Yer a petty officer, Kydd,' Cundall repeated. The others remained silent, looking at him gravely. Slowly it dawned on him. As a petty officer, he had authority over every one of them including Petit. He couldn't stay as a friend and at the same time do his duty by the ship. And it was asking too much to expect them to treat him as an equal when he wasn't. 'Yair, have to move, I guess.'

  Renzi was nowhere to be seen, and Kydd felt a chill of loneliness. He nodded to Petit and said, 'Be on m' way by th' last dog-watc
h.'

  'Luck, cuffin,' said Doud, softly.

  Aft, next to the boatswain's cabin, was the screened-off mystery of the quarter-gunners' mess. He scratched on the hanging flap — a face, irritated and querulous, poked out. 'What?' it said.

  Kydd blurted out his situation.

  'Not 'n here, yer don't.' The face disappeared. The carpenter's crew had their mess snugly fashioned for themselves and did not want another intruding. An idler's mess — the cooper, sailmaker's mates and the like - offered doubtfully, but they were not watchkeepers and their perspectives of life aboard were quite different. Kydd felt he must decline. He felt rootless, an outcast, much as he had felt when he had been thrust aboard his first ship as a pressed man.

  'What're you about, mate?' Stirk's voice behind made him jump. 'Bin lookin' fer you half the dog-watch,' he said, looking at Kydd curiously. 'Gotta get yer gear shifted afore pipe down hammocks, or . . .' He pulled aside the canvas screen to a nearby mess and motioned Kydd in. 'This here's Tom Kydd, frien's, quartermaster's mate, just rated.'

  Kydd caught his breath. Around the mess table were petty officers, men he had learnt to fear and respect. They were the backbone of the Navy, hard men in charge of fighting tops, afterguard, topmen - the elite captains of 'part-of-ship'. They stared up at him, some with narrowed eyes, others with a shrewd wariness. 'Good t' know ye,' Kydd said, in as neutral a voice as he could manage. He had no idea how to address these men, his claim to be a petty officer, one of them, now seeming a flimsy pretence. They did not answer.

  Stirk went on, An' this Kydd is the juggins 'oo sees a merchant hooker in a blow on 'er way ter Davy Jones. Gets 'imself streamed off in a raft from a ship-o'-the-line, jus' cos he thinks ter save 'er.'

  There was an interested stirring. 'Did yer?'

  'Yair. But got nothing out've it later, the shysters,' Kydd said carefully.

  A tall, dark man, whom Kydd recognised as captain of the maintop, grunted and said, 'Well, get yer dunnage then, Kydd — seems yer movin' in 'ere with us.'

  He felt a jet of exultation, then turned to Stirk. 'You . . .'

  'Quarter-gunner, jus' rated up.' He thrust the canvas flap aside and called back over his shoulder, 'An' we got one other Royal Billy in with us — cap'n of the mizzentop.'

  Kydd wondered who it could be, but time was short and he had his gear to shift. When he got to his old mess there were few left at the table, but with a pang he saw Renzi, standing over their shared sea-chest.

  'Nicholas - I, well . . .'

  Renzi looked at him for a long moment. Then he spoke. 'Bear a fist, y' poxy lubber!' he snapped, in a very good approximation of a petty officer's impatient growl.

  Kydd could hardly believe his ears. He glowed with pleasure. 'You?'

  'It seems I have been raised to the felicity of captain of the mizzentop,' Renzi continued, in a more normal tone, 'and thus might aspire to more congenial quarters.'

  The mess was more snug than Kydd thought possible. Instead of being lost in the gloom of the open mess deck, the lanthorn light now shone cosily on the inside of the canvas partitions, revealing on the forward one a painted scene of a furious battle at sea in which Artemis was easily recognisable, and on the after one several mermaids combing each other's hair. The racks of mess-traps were more elaborate, and Kydd guessed that in other things there would be similar improvements. He slung his ditty bag with the others along the ship's side and took his seat.

  'Quartermaster's mate — which watch are youse then, Kydd?' the tall dark man asked.

  'Starbowlines, and it's Tom,' he said warily.

  'Crow, Isaac Crow,' the man said. 'Cap'n of the maintop. So that'd be Hallison, then, Joshua Hallison who's yer quartermaster.' He chuckled. 'Yer've picked a right taut hand o' th' watch there, cully.'

  Another petty officer Kydd knew was Mullion, larboard captain of the foretop. He had reason to — Mullion was never without his colt, a braided rope's end, which he used impartially on his men in the belief that it was the undoubted origin of their markedly faster times. He looked at Kydd steadily, then nodded and grunted, 'Jeb.'

  The canvas flap was thrown aside and a short but sharp-faced man entered and crashed down the grog kid on the table, taking his place on one side. Kydd knew him only from afar as one whose temper was best avoided.

  'Parry, God rot his bones!' he said in a grating voice, and noticed Kydd. 'Who're you?' There was a visceral challenge in the tone.

  'Kydd - Tom Kydd, quartermaster's mate o' the starb'd watch,' he said, and felt colour rising. 'An' who are you, then?' he said boldly.

  The man paused, fixing him with colourless eyes. 'Haynes.'

  'Yer glass, Kydd,' reminded Crow, holding out his hand over the grog monkey. Kydd had his old pot ready, then remembered that petty officers had the privilege of taking their rum neat, not diluted to grog.

  A glass was returned full of the dark mahogany liquid, the powerful odour of rum heavy on the air. Kydd raised it in a general salute and swallowed. The liquor was pungent and strong.

  As they drank, Kydd began to feel the pattern of comradely warmth of his new mess. Crow asked him more about his time in a line-of-battle ship, and others put in their contribution. The lanthorn was trimmed up, and meal-time conviviality set in.

  Just as the food arrived, Renzi appeared, silent and watchful. 'Renzi,' said Stirk briefly. 'Tie-mate o' Kydd's,' he added, referring to the service close friends did for each other in turn — plait and tie off the pigtail.

  'Yeah, heard of 'im, Toby,' grated Haynes. 'With yer when you boarded the Cttqyong through the gun-ports.' He gave the smallest of nods to Renzi, but impaled him with his eyes.

  Renzi sat, but remained quiet.

  'Got a headpiece on 'im, 'e 'as,' Stirk added. 'We listens ter what 'e 'as to say, like.'

  The table held its reserve — a sea-lawyer was not a popular character to be.

  Mullion broke the quiet. 'So it's Manila - what's this, then?' The question was plainly directed at Renzi, and the others kept their silence.

  Renzi's half-smile appeared. 'We show the Dons we have the force to protect our interests, in the event a good plan while we have a prime frigate in the area.' He flicked a glance at Haynes. 'The Spanish are a proud race, but they have let this part of their empire decline. We will have no difficulty in impressing them here. But if we are already at war . . .'

  'The Manila Galleon - we knows about that,' Crow said, but in a not unfriendly tone. He opened the door across the racks at the ship's side and drew out crockery and pewter spoons.

  'Then as we have no strategic interest in the place, we will quietly withdraw.'

  Haynes's eyes narrowed. 'Yer sayin' . . .'

  'If we take the town, then garrison, defend it — to what purpose? What have we won? What are we defending? There is no sense in this.'

  Crow looked over at Haynes with a smirk. 'He's right, an' all.'

  Kydd was happy that no one had commented on Renzi's cultured accent. But he had his misgivings. How would Renzi fare shouting orders to his men in the mizzentop? And for that matter, he himself?

  Hallison was a dour man whom Kydd remembered as having a short way with helmsmen who failed to measure up. He looked at Kydd doubtfully. 'Now, lad, your main dooty is the helm, but there's a mort more t' being a quartermaster.' He automatically looked up to the weather leech of the mainsail, just beginning to catch the first of the weak dawn sun. 'Steer small, damn you,' he growled at the helmsman, and turned back to Kydd. 'All kind o' things, fr'm stowing the ballast to leadin' the boarders who are cuttin' out an enemy, 'cos we're the ones who always know how, see?' He stared directly at Kydd.

  'Aye, Mr Hallison.'

  At that moment sailors began to appear on deck, some bleary-eyed, others surly. Kydd knew very well what this meant but never again would he be expected to join them in scrubbing the deck.

  'After end o' the quarterdeck,' Hallison told him. Kydd started; then recollected himself and strode to the taffrail.

  He
glared about him but inwardly he was flinching. 'Get a move on, you heavy-arsed dogs,' he snarled. At the resentful looks of the sailors he realised that perhaps this was going too far. The men stood in front of him, shuffling their feet, resigned. 'You,' he snapped, picking one at random, 'wash-deck hose.' The man didn't say anything but went forward obediently. 'Sand,' he said to another. The holystones were issued and he set the line of men abreast the helm to work their way aft to the stern.

  'Get those men going, th' maudling old women.' Parry stomped on deck: he was in a bad mood, and wanted to take it out on the men.

  Kydd had seen it before. He called, 'Parry!' in a low voice to the men, who took his signal and feigned fear at Kydd as they worked hard with their holystones.

  Parry glowered at the group of men who knelt amid the cold gushing water and gritty sand. At Kydd's questioning gaze he turned away to stamp forward.

  Kydd knew he was under eye from Hallison, and conscientiously applied his men, knowing the little tricks they could be up to so well himself.

  When they had reached the full extent of the deck, Hallison nodded and waited while the swabbers did their work drying the deck before calling Kydd over. 'Good. I don't hold with startin' m'self - you'll do.' Kydd couldn't conceive of wielding a rope's end on good men either. He beamed, but Hallison went on, 'Cap'n will be after yer skin, lad. He wants all his petty officers in blue jackets 'n' buttons when they're on deck.' He looked meaningfully at Kydd's striped shirt and knotted kerchief.

  Kydd nodded. Hallison glanced again at the weather leech and said, 'Go 'n' have some breakfast - be sure an' relieve me at one bell.'

  It was greatly satisfying, the way that seamen gave way to him at the sight of his blue jacket and twinkling brass buttons. His confidence soared as he bounded up the ladder to relieve Hallison. He had skipped his burgoo and hard-tack, quickly stitching the buttons with their stout anchor to his best and only blue jacket. He would not be found wanting in any particular.