Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

"Sir, he will be informed of his generous assistance to you when he returns aboard."

Kydd inclined his head to hear better. "Er, what seems t' be afoot on the upper deck?" There had been odd thumpings and occasional cries, but nothing the mate-of-the-watch could not be relied on to deal with.

Tysoe bent to trim the lamp. "The hands, sir. They wish to dance and skylark." Kydd nodded. There were men aboard, visiting from other ships, the weather was clear and it would be odd if there was not some kind of glee going in the fo'c'sle. He laid down his book. Perhaps he should cast an eye over the proceedings.

Darkness had fallen, but it was easy to make out activity on the foredeck by the light of lanthorns hung in the rigging. A hornpipe was being performed beside the jeer bitts of the foremast. Kydd wandered forward unnoticed. The seaman was skilled, his feet flashing forward to slap back rhythmically, the rigid body twirling in perfect time, while his upper body, arms folded, remained perfectly rigid and his face expressionless.

The fiddler finished with a deft upward note and, with a laugh, took a pull at his beer. "Ben Backstay!" The call was taken up around the deck, and eventually a fine-looking seaman from another ship stepped into the golden light and struck a pose.

When we sail, with a fresh'ning breeze,

And landmen all grow sick, sir;

The sailor lolls with his mind at ease,

And the song and can go quick, sir.

Laughing here,

Quaffing there,

Steadily, readily,

Cheerily, merrily,

Still from care and thinking free

Is a sailor's life for me!

The violin gaily extemporised as cheers and roars delayed the next verse. There was no problem here: these were the core seamen of Tenacious, deep-sea sailors whose profession was the sea. They were the heart and soul of the ship, not pressed men or the refuse of gaols.

With a further burst of hilarity the singer withdrew to receive his due in a dripping oak tankard, and Kydd turned to go. Then a plaintive chord floated out, it hung—and a woman's voice sounded above the lessening chatter. "Sweet Sally, an' how her true love Billy Bowling was torn fr'm her arms an' pressed." A blonde woman, standing tall and proud, continued, "Sally's heart's near broken, she can't bear t' be parted—so she disguises as a foremast jack 'n' goes aboard that very night." Kydd moved closer: the woman resembled his lost Kitty.

Aboard my true love's ship I'll go,

And brave each blowing gale;

I'll splice, I'll tack, I'll reef, I'll row,

And haul with him the sail;

In jacket blue, and trousers too,

With him I'll cruise afar,

There shall not be a smarter hand

Aboard a man-o'-war.

Her voice was warm and passionate. Talk died away as she sang on. Kydd's mind took him back to other ships, other ports — and evenings such as this with his shipmates—when he'd had not a care in his heart.

She finished, but the memories she had aroused came on him in full flood, stinging his eyes. He became aware that faces were turned towards him, conversations dying away. A woman moved protectively towards her man and the expressions became dark, resentful.

Poulden came across. "Sir?" he demanded suspiciously.

These men had every right to their territory, little enough in a ship of war. And he had no right—he did not belong. "Er, just came t' hear the songs," he said weakly. "Rattlin' good singing, lads," he added, but it fell into a silence. "Please carry on," he said, louder.

The men looked at each other, then the seaman who had sung "Ben Backstay" got to his feet and stood purposefully under the lanthorns. He muttered an aside to the violinist and clutching a tankard launched loudly into:

To our noble Commander

His Honour and Wealth,

May he drown and be damn'd—

Singer and violinist stopped precisely in mid-note and looked at Kydd. Their point made, the duo continued:

—that refuses the Health;

Here's to thee Billy, honest an' true;

Thanks to the men who calls them his crew

An' while one is drinking, the other shall fill!

A girl sprang into the pool of light. "A sarabande!" she called. But Kydd had left.

CHAPTER 6

"WELL, I WISH YOU JOY of your voyage, gentlemen—unhappily I have a court-martial to attend and therefore shall not be with you." There was no mistaking the smug satisfaction in Bampton's tone. In the normal run of events the inbound convoy would have been met by one or two of the hard-working frigates, but this one was transporting the lieutenant-governor of New Brunswick and his family to take up his post and Tenacious had been deemed more suitable.

It seemed to Kydd that he was the only one looking forward to the sea-time. The weather had been miserable these past few days, cold and blustery, and although they would only be out a day or so at most, the general consensus was that it was an ideal time to snug down in harbour until better conditions returned.

Kydd had long ago realised that he was a "foul-weather jack"—one of those who revelled in the exhilaration and spectacle of stormy seas, racing clouds and the life-intensifying charge of danger. In this short voyage he knew they would probably not face a full-blown tempest but the thought of a lively experience at sea lifted his spirits.

Tenacious and Ceres, a 32-gun frigate belonging to the Newfoundland Squadron, proceeded to sea together. With the cliffs of Chebucto Head abeam, they braced up for the hard easterly beat to rendezvous with the convoy.

The weather was freshening: their bows met foam-streaked waves at an angle, dipping before them, then rearing up to smash them apart in explosions of white. Standing aft, Kydd felt the sheeting spray in his teeth. With canvas taut as a drum, weather rigging harping to the wind's bluster, and, far on their beam, Ceres swooping and seething along under small sail, he was happier than he had been for some time. There would be no problems with the enemy—any rational privateer would have long since scuttled southwards until the weather improved. No prize could be boarded in this.

By afternoon they had not sighted the convoy; almost certainly it had been delayed by the poor weather. Houghton, on the quarterdeck in oilskins slick with spray, obviously had no plans to return to port and at the end of the day they shortened sail and kept enough way on the ship to head the easterly. It showed signs of veering, which had the master muttering anxiously to Houghton. At midnight they wore to the south and at the end of the middle watch took the third leg of a triangle to approximate their dusk position again.

A cold dawn brought no improvement in the weather, just the same streaming fresh gale and lively decks a-swill with water. There was no sign of the convoy but Ceres had stayed with them and by mid-morning there was a flutter of colour at her peak halliards: the convoy had been sighted.

Widely scattered, the ships were struggling to stay together— it was a miracle that they were even within sight of each other after so many thousands of miles of ocean. Without a convoy plan Kydd had no idea how many there should be, but a quick count enabled him to report what must be a sizeable proportion to the captain when he appeared on deck.

"We're looking for Lord Woolmer, she's carrying the new lieutenant-governor," Houghton said brusquely, "an ex-Indiaman. Be so good as to apprise the lookouts and report to me when she's in sight."

Ships of all kinds laboured past, converging on the rendezvous position; some showed obvious signs of storm damage. Towards the rear a battered sloop appeared, oddly out of shape with a truncated foretopmast, but bent on coming up with Tenacious.