Julian Stockwin - 19 The Baltic Prize (Thomas Kydd #19)

It was, besides, to the men aboard each ship, the source of anything that would happen to them in the near future. Eyes were perpetually a-weather for any sign of excitement: the sudden snapping of signals from the flagship or the hasty putting-off of boats to fan out with urgent fleet orders.

‘Mr Rowan.’ The boatswain stood suddenly across his path, his arms folded.

Tyger ’s new midshipman stopped warily. ‘Mr Herne?’

This was the hard-featured but quietly spoken senior hand answering to the first lieutenant himself and in charge of the seamen for every manoeuvre of the ship and the maintenance of the miles of rigging. He was one of the standing officers, who would see captains come and go, and experience all her voyages and battles until the ship finally went to her rest.

His calm eyes regarded Rowan gravely. ‘I don’t recollect as I’ve ever seen ye aloft, Mr Rowan. Ain’t natural, a midshipman not skylarkin’ in the tops. You’d oblige me b’ giving me a hail from yon main-top.’

It was unfair! He’d been aboard only days and they expected him to make the fearful climb up there? It was the haunt of topmen, prime seamen, who were the cream of any ship’s company.

‘I – I don’t think as—’

The boatswain simply pointed up, his face implacable.

When Rowan hesitated, Herne called across a seaman. ‘Leckie! Mr Rowan here wants ye to show him the way to the main-top. If y’ please …’

The man was mature, the hair touched by grey, but he had an open, uncomplicated appearance – and the barrel chest and powerful arms of a deep-sea mariner. ‘Aye aye, Mr Herne,’ he replied, swiftly sizing Rowan up. ‘Ah, there’s but one way t’ do it,’ he confided, ‘an’ that’s the right way.’

Satisfied, the boatswain moved on, leaving them to it.

‘We mounts the shroud hand over hand but first we leaves the deck – this way.’

With a practised leap he caught the forward-most shroud well up and, in the same movement, drew his legs up to the bulwarks and hauled himself upright, swinging to a rest on the outer side of the shrouds. ‘See?’ He made room for Rowan.

It took three tries before Rowan caught on to the need to perform all motions simultaneously but then he stood breathlessly next to Herne, clutching the shroud tightly. His courage ebbed as he looked down: twenty feet or more below was the cold grey depth of the Baltic.

‘Y’ sees how we has the shrouds set up, an’ it’s important y’ has a good notion of what it’s about, else you’ll be in wi’ the fishes an’ all.’ He looked at Rowan as if in doubt of his taking the point.

‘Now these thick lines going up are y’r shrouds.’ He patted familiarly the inches-thick tar-black ropes soaring skyward.

‘And right across ’em we puts the ratlines, as we’ll use to get up.’ This rope was much thinner and was secured to the shrouds to form a ladder.

‘Now, what I want ye to remember always is that when we goes up any kind o’ sea-ladder, never grab hold on the one that’s going across, always the one going up ’n’ down. If y’ ratline let’s go on ye, it’s a backward flip an’ into the oggin, right?’

Rowan nodded but his gaze had transferred up to the narrowing step-ladder that led to the underside of the main-top. ‘R-right, I’m ready,’ he said nervously.

‘You first, Mr Rowan,’ Leckie said firmly. ‘As I’m here t’ catch ye.’

Rowan took a deep breath, felt for the next step and hung there, indecisive.

‘Easy, really,’ Leckie said conversationally. ‘Jus’ take it one at a time, y’r right leg, left arm, other leg, right arm – that way ye has always three out o’ four pins safe. Have a try, lad.’

It made sense and, miraculously, he was climbing the ratlines. In a laborious rhythm, true, but he was on his way up.

Conscious of Leckie beneath him, he neared the fighting top, much bigger than it looked from on deck. He glanced down curiously – and froze. Strangely distorted by height, the deck below was transformed into a faraway place quite different from the blustery upper realm he was in now, but at the same time thrilling in its sensation of thrusting speed and liveliness. He’d never really been prey to a fear of heights and began revelling in the sensation of cutting free from the common and pedestrian lower world.

‘On y’ goes, mate,’ Leckie urged. ‘In through that big hole.’

In the shadow of the jutting fighting top he was close to the big driving sail, a vast expanse of taut canvas, the reef points pattering busily, the down-draught like an airy waterfall. He reached the underside of the top and in the last few feet of the ratlines was able to pop his head through and surprise a seaman at work on one of the dozens of lines soaring up further.

Hauling himself up he managed to stand freely on the railed platform, gingerly steadying himself with a line from aloft.

He’d made it! Exhilarated, he took in the grand sights – great sails straining at the tackles that held them, the widening traces of the white of the wake in continual formation, the sea stretching out in a boundless expanse of blue to a horizon many times more distant.

He became aware of movement and, on the weather side of the top, Gilpin’s face popped into view. Not for him the convenient opening next to the mast – he’d gone around the edge of the top and heaved himself up and over to join him. Gilpin affected not to see him, striking a noble pose against the wind.

Leckie eased himself in through the opening and let Rowan take his fill of the scene, then said, ‘Well done, nipper. We’ll get back now. Same way as ye came, face into the ladder.’

‘Aye, but up through the lubber’s hole?’ Gilpin said lazily, his smug confidence spoiling Rowan’s exhilaration. ‘Marks you out as a Johnny Raw every time.’

Without a word Leckie casually reached up – and launched himself into space.

In one breath-taking move he transferred his weight to his hands gripping a stay, swinging his legs up to cross around it, and in an effortless show slid hand over hand to the deck far below.

The gunner looked up in surprise.

‘Er, Mr Bowden said as I’m to make your acquaintance, Mr Darby.’

‘You the new reefer?’ The voice was a guarded rumble.

‘Rowan, sir.’

The forward magazine was eerily lit by outside lamps in glass-panelled sconces that shone a dusky light inside. Darby was at a folding desk, writing up his muster accounts, and close by was the bulk of a seaman Rowan had seen from a distance, catching his attention by his almost feral presence. Oddly, the man wore a knotted red bandanna on his head, piratical fashion, instead of the shapeless Monmouth cap sailors usually favoured.

‘So you’ve made m’ acquaintance. That all?’

Stacked in array against the four sides of the magazine were countless grey serge cartridges, each as big as a figgy duff for a whole mess, a frightful menace of pent-up wrath. Behind them could be glimpsed the dully gleaming copper walls, floors and deckhead of the flame-proof lining.

‘Er, I was hoping you’d tell me something of your guns, Mr Darby,’ Rowan asked, as respectfully as he could.

‘Ha! As if I’ve time f’r that!’ He glowered, not inclined to put down his pencil. Then, relenting, he muttered to the seaman, ‘You do it, Toby. Take ’im topsides an’ clue ’im in on our barkers, would you, mate?’

The man was sewing cartridges with deft, strong pulls; he put down his work. ‘Out!’ he commanded Rowan, who scuttled away hastily. ‘Up!’ He pointed, his glittering dark eyes unreadable.

Obediently Rowan clattered up the steps to the orlop and, without prompting, aft to the main hatchway, then up to the seamen’s berth deck.