Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

"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 between 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.

"Isaac Hannaford, s' please yer, sir."

"And?"

The man's eyes shifted uneasily. "Can't rightly recolleck," he finally answered.

"First o' starb'd, sir, afterguard," Lawes said heavily.

"Let's see y'r clothing, then, Hannaford," Kydd said. The ditty bag was upended to reveal a forlorn, unclean assortment. "Mr Lawes, what's in this man's list?"

"Sir, shirts, two, stockings, four." Hannaford was an old hand and knew the ropes—but he had sold his clothing for illicit grog.

"Come, now, Hannaford, you're an old haulbowlings. Can't you see, without kit, you're not going t' be much use to the barky?" There was no use waiting for an answer, and he rounded on Lawes. "To see th' purser for slops, t' make up his list." It would be stopped out of his pay; whether that would have any effect was doubtful. "And each Sunday t' prove his kit to the petty officer of his watch."

As Lawes scrawled in his notebook Kydd passed to the next man. "Thorn, sir." Kydd nodded and moved on.

He stopped at a fine-looking seaman, so tall that he stood stooped under the deckhead. "Haven't I seen you afore now? Was it . . . Bacchante, the Med?"

"'Twas, right enough, sir," the man said, with a surprised smile. "But you was master's mate then—no, I tell a lie, quartermaster as was. Saw yez step ashore in Venice, I remembers." At Kydd's expression he hurried to add, "An' it's William Poulden, waist, sir, second o' larb'd."

Kydd decided he would see if he could get this good hand changed from the drudgery of being in the waist with the land-men to something more rewarding.

He stopped at a shy-looking youngster with a stye on one eye. "What's y'r station for reefing at th' fore?"

"Ah—fore t' gallant sheets 'n' clewlines, sir," the boy said, after some thinking.

"Hmmm." This was a topman—he should have been quicker to respond. "And mooring ship?"

"T' attend buoy an' fish tackle," he said instantly. Kydd knew that the quick reply was a guess. No topman would be left on the fo'c'sle while taking in sail. "Mr Lawes, this man c'n claim his tot only when he knows his stations. And he sees the doctor about his eye."

The rest of his division seemed capable. He noted the odd character eyeing him warily—but he would see their quality soon enough when he stood his first watch.

A distant call sounded from forward, a single long note, the "still." The captain was beginning his rounds.

"Straighten up, then! Mr Lawes, see they toe the line properly, if you please." The rows shuffled into line, to Kydd's eyes their alert and loose-limbed bearing infinitely preferable to the perfect rigidity of a line of soldiers.