Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

He saw the captain approach, accompanied by the first lieutenant, looking under pressure, with the captain's clerk and Pringle. Kydd whipped off his hat and prepared for inspection, but the captain managed only a rapid glance, a nod at Kydd and a few words with Lawes before he passed to the gun-deck below.

The officers assembled for sail drill had no indication of the captain's mind when he appeared from his cabin. His fixed expression could mean disappointment at the quality of the men he had seen earlier or satisfaction with the relative ease with which Tenacious had been manned.

In any event, now would be the time that reputations were won or lost, weakness and strengths revealed, not least of which would be that of the captain himself, as he reacted to the success or otherwise of the morning's evolutions.

Kydd felt the tension. His eyes met Renzi's and provoked a slow half-smile as both turned to face their captain.

"Loose and furl by mast and watch. I shall not want to exercise further today—but if we are not striking topmasts within the space of three days . . ."

Already at his station on the quarterdeck, Kydd watched the other officers move to the fo'c'sle, main deck and forward of the mainmast.

"Larb'd watch o' the hands— haaaands to stations for making sail!"

Two hundred seamen raced to their stations, the fore, main and mizzen shrouds black with men heading for the tops; others ran to the pin rails at the ship's side and the massive square bitts at the base of each mast, around which hung a complex maze of ropes.

Along the deck men hurried to the belaying points for important lines running aloft, braces, halliards, sheets. Petty officers pushed and bullied the hapless landmen into their places, showing no mercy to the slow-witted. It all seemed so straightforward now, but Kydd recalled his first daunting experiences at tailing on to a rope, in the old 98-gun Duke William in these very waters.

When the muttering, cursing and murmuring had settled, the captain lifted his speaking trumpet. "Foremast, loose all sail to a bowline."

Adams, clearly tense and waiting for the start, instantly lifted his head and blared up, "Lay aloft, royal yardmen! Lay aloft . . ."

"Belay that!" Houghton's face was red with anger, and the hard edge in his voice carried forward. "Brace around, damn it, lay the yard first, you fool!"

Adams's command had been a mistake. Firmly anchored, and with but one mast with sail abroad, there was no opportunity to use another mast, with sails backing, to balance the forces. His order would have seen the ship move ahead and strain at her moorings.

Crimson-faced, Adams stood down his men at the halliards, shifting them to the forebraces, and brought the yards round, as he should have done before sending the men aloft to set the sail.

Kydd knew his turn would come.

The exercise went on. At the foremast, sail cascaded down at the volley of commands, to hang limply forward. Minutes later, men returned to the yards, this time to furl the sail to a seamanlike stow. Houghton said nothing, his furrowed brow evidence of the direction of his thoughts.

"Mainmast, loose all sail to a bowline," Houghton ordered. He was staying with the larboard watch and moving along the masts: Kydd, at the mizzen, would be facing his test so much the earlier. Would his petty officers be reliable enough on the job, up there on the mizzen top? There was no chance that he himself would ever again be up there with them, to see their work, intervene if needed, chase down laggards . . . It took an effort of will to remain aloof and outside the real action, merely to direct in general—but at the same time the responsibility was his alone.

"Mizzen, loose all sail to a bowline!"

Kydd turned instantly.

"Lay aloft an' loose mizzen tops'l!"

No point in going through the orders in detail from the deck, when the captain of the mizzen top was perfectly capable of taking charge on the spot. Kydd wheeled around and snapped, "Let go brails and vangs—man the clew outhaul and out spanker!" The mizzen did not have a course spread on the cro'jack to worry about, but it did have a mighty fore and aft sail, the spanker, and this with not only a lower boom but a substantial gaff that had to be bodily raised apeak.

"Get those men movin', the maudling old women!" he threw irritably at the petty officer of the afterguard in charge of the halliard crew on deck. This was no time to be cautious, here directly under the captain's eye.

The mizzen topsail yard was nearly hoisted. Kydd bit his lip, but the sail came tumbling down at just the right time. He had been right to trust the men in the top.

"Lay aloft—loose t' garns'l!" Men swarmed up the higher shrouds, while below the topsail was settled. With the sail hanging down limply as it was, Kydd had foreseen the need to haul out the foot forward, and used the old trick of untoggling the top bowlines from their bridles and shifting them to a buntline cringle.

He stole a quick glance at Houghton. The captain stood impassive, waiting.

The topgallant set, it was then just the mizzen royal—and the gaskets came off smartly at just the time the spanker gaff reached its final position. Kydd judged that there would be no need on this occasion for play with a jigger at the spanker outhaul, and simply waited for the motion to cease.

"Start the halliards b' a foot or two," he warned the after-guard—they had unwisely belayed fully before the order.

Sheepishly they threw off the turns, but Kydd was startled by a blast of annoyance from the captain. "What the devil are you about, Mr Kydd? Not yet finished?"

The sprightly sound of "Roast Beef of Old England" on fife and drum echoed up from the main deck. The men had already taken their issue of grog and gone below for the high point of their noonday meal, leaving the deck to the officers and indispensables of the watch. As they returned to work, to part-of-ship for cleaning, Kydd thankfully answered the call and made his way to the wardroom.

The table was spread, wine was uncorked and splashing into glasses; expressions were easing after the morning's tensions. Laughter erupted at one end of the table and the fragrance of roast pork agreeably filled the air.

"Your good health, brother!" Renzi grinned at Kydd over his glass: he had done tolerably well at the mainmast that morning, avoiding the captain's wrath at the last moment by quick-thinking at the braces.

"Thank ye — and yours, old friend," Kydd replied. There was a lot to think about, not the least of which was his standing in this world, so utterly different from that of the seaman.

An insistent tinkling intruded into his thoughts. It was the second lieutenant, tapping his glass with a spoon. "Gentlemen, may I have your attention?" He waited until the talk died. "I don't have to tell you that we shall soon be rejoining the fleet, which means, of course, that we shall need to provision against some months at sea."

He looked pointedly at Kydd. "There are some who are victualled 'bare Navy' but have nevertheless seen fit to accept the hospitality of this mess." Mystified, Kydd turned to Adams, who merely raised his eyebrows. "This is neither fair nor honourable. But be that as it may, in my humble post as mess caterer, I have calculated that we shall need to consider the sum of fifty pounds per annum as a minimum subscription."

"Preposterous! That's more'n five poun' a head!" Bryant's glass trembled in mid-air. "What do we get for that?"

Bampton heaved a theatrical sigh. "The mess commensal wine by quarter cask is half a pint a day, captain to dinner once a month. We lay in the usual cheeses, barrel oysters, tea and raisins, other conveniences for the pantry, such as cloves, pickles, ginger and the like, and when we consider breakages in glasses and dishes . . ."