Quarterdeck: A Kydd Sea Adventure

by Julian Stockwin

  There was a knock at the door and Adams crossed to answer it. ‘L’tenant Kydd! Seems first 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 first 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 find.’ Adams paused. ‘Bryant the Beatific. 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 finished his scrawling. ‘So, Mr Kydd, you’re the fifth and junior. I’ve put you with Mr Bampton as second officer-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.’

  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 fight 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 officers 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, 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 officers 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 apprehensions.

  ‘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.’

  ‘Bampton, second luff, only officer 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, fir-built and cast ashore. Take heed all ye who would place Baltic fir 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!’

  There was warmth in the easy laughter that followed the old saw. Kydd had no idea that there was such a fraternity in the officers 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 laconically 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 filled 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 finished his soup. ‘Sadly, we shan’t see their like again, I fear, before we next make port.’

  Behind the chair of each officer 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 blackamoor you have there, come down in the world since he was valet de chambre to Codrington, who, you might recollect, died of an apoplexy 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 th
e scrimmages that sometimes took place as servants jostled to see their masters’ needs met first, he had his doubts that Tysoe would hold his own. But something 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 officers. 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 find 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 figgy 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 officer. 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 first time.

  A hoy from the receiving ship came alongside in a flurry of flapping 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 first 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.

  Kydd felt contentment at the thought that within a week or so this deck would be alive and heeling to the stern winds of the open ocean.

  Renzi fell into step beside him.

  ‘Nicholas! How did y’ sleep?’ Kydd’s own experience had not been of the best. Alone in the dark, he had tried to keep the thoughts that surged through him under control. The cot, a square-sided canvas frame suspended from the deckhead, was comfortable, but he had not realised that bedding was his own responsibility, and were it not for Tysoe’s silent intercession, he would have gone without.

  ‘Well, it must certainly be admitted, our elevation to society in this watery world has its distinct attractions.’ Renzi wore an indulgent smile, which triggered a jet of frustration in Kydd. After his own experiences, it was galling to see Renzi take to his new life so easily.

  ‘It is agreeable, perhaps, but today we get th’ measure of our men,’ he said impatiently. Adams was on the opposite side of the deck, deep in conversation with a master’s mate, and also appeared anxious to be started.

  ‘Mr Kydd?’

  He turned to see a dignified older man in plain uniform. The man touched his hat. ‘Hambly, sir, sailing master.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Hambly,’ Kydd replied. A full master, Royal Navy, paying his respects, the highest professional being in Kydd’s universe before. The man’s steady look had a quality of appraisal, cool judgement.

  ‘Thought I’d make y’r acquaintance, sir.’ Before Kydd could speak, he continued, ‘Mr Jarman is m’ friend.’

  Kydd remembered the master of the topsail cutter Seaflower, who had patiently taught him the elements of navigation and whose octant he now used, pressed on him after his famed open-boat voyage.

  ‘A fine man, Mr Hambly,’ Kydd said sincerely. ‘I owe him much.’

  The master smiled slowly, touched his hat to Kydd, then Renzi, and left.

  A double strike on the bell sounded forward: this was the time for the officers to repair to the great cabin where the shape of things to come would now become apparent.

  ‘Gentlemen, be seated.’ The captain remained standing, staring out of the stern windows. ‘I won’t keep you long,’ he said. ‘It is my intention to conclude the fitting of this vessel for sea as soon as possible. I desire that today you shall muster the people by open list, and prove your divisions. The first lieutenant has assured me he has now a complete watch and station bill.’

  Bryant nodded emphatically, then glanced around at the officers meaningfully. There had been frantic work by his writer and clerks the previous night.

  Houghton continued sternly, ‘He wishes that this shall be advised to all hands – with a view to shifting to sea routine within a small space of days. The quarters bill will be posted this evening, I am assured.’ He withdrew a silver watch. ‘Shall we say, divisions at five bells?’

  ‘Mr Lawes?’ Kydd addressed the only master’s mate among the group of about twenty men.

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Pleased t’ see you,’ Kydd said, touching his own hat at Lawes’s salute. He turned to survey the men drawn up on the poop deck. Most of his division, the able seamen, landmen and idlers, would still be below for these first proceedings. ‘Our petty officers, Mr Lawes?’

  ‘Sir.’

  These men were the hard centre of his division, the ones in local charge of the seamen at masts, yards and guns. They would also be at his right hand when his division was tasked for special duty, whether the boarding of a prize or the cutting out of an enemy – and they would be looking directly to him for their lead.

  ‘This is Mr Rawson, signal midshipman.’ It was the previous day’s coxswain of the ship’s boat, Kydd remembered.

  ‘And Mr Chamberlain, midshipman.’ He was absurdly youthful, thought Kydd, observing his curls and slight build, yet he knew this boy had a status and duties that placed him well above the hardiest able seaman.

  ‘Samuel Laffin, bo’sun’s mate . . .’ Dark-featured and oddly neat in his appearance, on his hat he wore a ribbon with ‘Tenacious’ in gold lettering.

  ‘Henry Soulter, quartermaster.’ Kydd recognised a natural deep-sea mariner, and warmed to his softly spoken ways.

  And there were others, whom he knew he should remember – petty officers of the fighting tops, quarter gunners, petty officer of the afterguard – and rarer birds, such as captain of the hold, yeoman of the powder room and the carpenter’s mates. In all, he would have a fair proportioning of the five hundred-odd of Tenacious’s company, such that most of the skills of a man-o’-war would be at hand if Mr Kydd’s division was called away as a unit.

  Kydd stepped forward and braced himself to address them: they would be expecting some words to set the tone. ‘Ye’ll find that I play fair, but I expect the same from you all. You know I come fr’m before the mast, that’s no secret, but chalk this in y’r log – I know the tricks, an’ if I see any of ’em, I’ll be down on ye like thunder.

  ‘I like a taut ship. If y’ see an Irish pennant, send a hand t’ secure it. If the job’s not finished b’ end of watch, stay until it’s done. And look after y’r men! If I see you warm ’n’ dry on watch while a man has a wet shirt, I’ll have ye exchange with him.’

  He felt their eyes on him, and he knew what they were thinking: how would all this translate to action, or was it mere words? Would he leave it to them, the senior hands, to deal with things on the spot so long as the objective was achieved, to administer justice in the time-honoured ways of the sea? In effect, would their status be properly acknowledged?

  ‘Y’ have your lists?’ Each petty officer would have the watch and station details of every man he was responsible for, and Lawes would have a master list. After today there would be no excuse for any seaman not to know where he should be in every circumstance foreseeable by experience and necessity.

  ‘Mr Lawes, I shall inspect my division in one bell.’

  The territory allotted for mustering Mr Kydd’s division was the after end of the main deck. His men assembled in order, three rows on each side facing inboard, their ditty bags of clothing at their feet. There was controlled bedlam as watch and stations were explained, noted and learned, friendships discovered be
tween those of like watch and part-of-ship, and new-rated petty officers got to grips with their duties.

  Kydd paced quietly down the middle. He could leave it to Lawes to muster the men and report when ready while he eyed them surreptitiously.

  A Royal Navy warship was divided into as many divisions as there were officers. In this way each man could claim the ear of his own officer for complaint, requests and someone to speak for him at a court-martial. It was a humane custom of the Navy, but it required that the officer was familiar with his men.

  But the men had other allegiances. Apart from the specialist artisans, the idlers, the crew was divided into two watches for routine working of the ship – starboard and larboard watches. These would in turn be divided into parts-of-ship – the fo’c’sle, maintop, afterguard on the quarterdeck and so on. As officer-of-the-watch, Kydd would therefore be certain to meet his men in another guise.

  If there was a break in routine, as when a ship came to her anchor or took in sail for a storm, each man had his own particular post of duty, his station. Whether this was up at the main yard fisting canvas, or veering anchor cable when ‘hands for mooring ship’ was piped, he had to close up at his station or risk the direst punishment.

  Now, before Tenacious faced the open sea, was the time to establish that the ship’s company was primed and ready for their duty.

  ‘Sir, division ready f’r your inspection,’ said Lawes cautiously. He was an older master’s mate and Kydd suspected that his origins were also from before the mast.

  They stepped forward together to the front row. The sailors looked ahead vaguely, but Kydd knew he was under close scrutiny. In the future he could be leading them into the hell of a boarding, the deadly tensions of a night attack in boats – or seeing them spreadeagled on a grating under the lash.

  ‘You, sir, what’s your name?’ The grog-blotched skin, rheumy eyes and flaccid ditty bag were a giveaway.