Quarterdeck (14 page)

“Stop,” he called, his voice mingling with the others. The time to a second was recorded by a master’s mate: this was the exact instant of local noon along this line of longitude, the meridian. By the elevation of the sun above the earth, the distance along that line from the equator, the latitude, could be found, and where the two intersected would be the ship’s position.

He lowered his instrument and, through habit, glanced into the binnacle: at noon on the meridian the sun was exactly due south so this was a good time to check the compass.

In the wardroom the table fi lled quickly with paper and books.

Kydd jotted down his octant reading, returned the instrument to its case, and found his
Moore’s Nautical Almanac.
In practised sequence he entered the tables, applied the corrections and neatly summarised his workings, his fi nal latitude and longitude boldly there for all to see.

“Thank you, gentlemen,” the master said, collecting the workings. They agreed within a minute or so, but Kydd’s was the closest of all to Hambly’s own.

“Mr Kydd.” The captain was standing on the weather side of the quarterdeck.

“Aye, sir,” Kydd replied, moving quickly to him.

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“As you must be aware,” he said gruffl y, “with four watch-keeping offi cers, having a second offi cer-of-the-watch forces them to watch on, watch off. The fi rst lieutenant has asked that the ship’s offi cers now move to single watches.”

“Sir.”

“Therefore you will oblige me by assuming your own watch,”

he said drily. “Should you feel unsure in
any
situation, you will call me at once. Do you understand?”

“Instantly, sir.”

“Carry on, please, Mr Kydd.”

The last dog-watch was nearly over when Kydd appeared by the wheel to take the next watch. In the early night-darkness the men stood about quietly, their faces eerily lit from beneath by the dim light of the binnacle lamp.

“Mr Bampton,” Kydd said in greeting.

The second lieutenant grunted, and turned to look at Kydd.

“Course sou’west b’ south, courses are in to topsails one reef, last cast of the log fi ve and a half knots.” He glanced once at the dark, near invisible sea, speckled prettily with golden pricks of lanthorn light where the convoy sailed on quietly through the night.

“Convoy still seems to be with us, carpenter reports nine inches in the well, we have two in the bilboes.” These unfortunates would spend all night in leg irons until hauled before the captain in the morning, but it was necessary to pass on the information. In the event that the ship was in danger of foundering they must be released.

“You have the ship, I’m going below. If you get into a pother,
don’t
call me. Good night.”

It was done. A momentary rush of panic, then exultation. The man standing on the quarterdeck in command, around whom

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the world that was HMS
Tenacious
would revolve, was Thomas Paine Kydd.

A duty quartermaster held out the chalk log. The watch always started with a clean slate and Kydd took it, his notations of course and sail now holy writ to be transcribed later to the master’s log. He heard the quartermaster murmur the heading to the new hand on the wheel, then saw him squint at the compass before returning to report, “Sou’west b’ south, Brown on the wheel, sir.” Much as Kydd himself had done not so very long ago.

The fi gures dispersed, leaving the new watch in possession of the deck. Kydd’s midshipman messenger was behind him, and the mate-of-the-watch with his boatswain’s mate stood to leeward, waiting for orders. The rest of the watch were at different positions around the deck under their station captains, for now Kydd, as an offi cer, could never treat with them directly.

Eight bells clanged forward. It was the fi rst watch, and in accordance with practice, the ship went to evening quarters. Mess-decks were transformed as ditty bags were taken down, benches stowed below, mess-traps placed in racks and the hinged table removed. Once again the broad space reverted to its true purpose—a gun-deck with martial rows of heavy cannons.

At the guns, the fi ghting tops and in the waist of the ship, men stood ready. It was a time to muster them, to ensure they knew their place in combat intimately, and also it was an opportunity for the seamen to learn about those in authority over them. But this did not concern Kydd, who maintained his watch from on high over them all.

Quarters over, the men were released. Hammocks were piped down from their stowage in the nettings around the bulwarks and slung below. In the same hour the space passed from a dining room to a ship of war and then a dormitory. The ship changed
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from a busy working place to a darkened domain of slumber.

It was a clear night with the wind steady on the beam. Kydd stepped inside the cabin spaces to the lobby, where a small table bore a chart. It was now his duty to think of the bigger picture. A seaman before the mast simply accepted that a course was set to a compass heading. Beyond that, it was of no interest to someone who could have no say in his destiny, but who at the same time did not have to worry about it.

Kydd lowered the dim lanthorn so its soft golden light was enough to see their pencilled course pricked out. They were heading mainly south with the Canary current to avoid the strong trade westerlies, and to pick up later the countervailing seasonal north-easterlies in a swing across the width of the ocean.

Kydd stepped out on deck again. He had been in countless night watches and been comforted by the nocturnal sounds: the slaps and dings of ropes against masts, sails occasionally cracking with a high-spirited fl ourish, the never-ceasing spreading groan and creak of timbers, the ghost-like susurrus of wind in the lines from aloft—all had been a soothing backdrop before.

Now its character had changed. Any number of hazards might lie in wait to challenge his still untutored judgement, a started strake even now spurting black water into the depths of the hold, a wrung topgallant mast tumbling to sudden ruin, a sleepy merchant ship yawing across their bows . . .

“Lawes, prove the lookouts!” It sounded more urgent than he meant.

In response to his mate-of-the-watch’s hail came answering cries of “Aye aye!” from around the deck.

Kydd moved along the weather gangway, thumping on ropes.

If they gave a satisfying hard thrum they were well taut, but a dead feel under his fi st meant a job for the watch on deck. He returned by the lee gangway, looking up at the pale expanse of sail. They drew well, but there was no compelling need for speed,

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locked in as they were to the speed of the convoy. He had no wish to be known as a “jib and staysail jack,” always trimming yards and canvas to the annoyance of the night watch.

Back on the quarterdeck, the ship’s easy motion was reassuring, the stolid presence of the helmsman and quartermaster companionable, and his tense wariness subsided.

The master-at-arms came aft from the main hatchway with a midshipman and corporal. “All’s well, sir, an’ lights out below,”

he reported.

“Very good. Carry on, please,” Kydd said, echoing the words of the countless offi cers-of-the-watch he had known. The master-at-arms touched his hat, leaving them to their solitude.

The accustomed tranquillity of a night watch began to settle—

bringing a disengagement of mind from body, a pleasant feeling of consciousness being borne timelessly to reverie and memories.

Kydd pulled himself together. This was not the way an offi cer-of-the-watch should be, with all his responsibility. He turned and paced fi rmly to the mainmast and back, glaring about.

The night wore on. It was easy sailing: he could hear the mono-tone of one of the watch on deck forward spinning a yarn. There was a falsetto hoot and sudden laughter, but for him there would be no more companionable yarns in the anonymous darkness.

He spun on his heel and paced slowly back towards the binnacle, catching the fl ash of eyes in the dimness nearby as the quartermaster weighed the chances of a bored offi cer-of-the-watch picking fault with his helmsman. Reaching the binnacle Kydd glanced inside to the soft gold of the compass light. Their course was true.

All along the decks, lines bowsed taut. What could go wrong?

His imagination replied with a multitude of possible emergencies. He forced them away and tried to remain calm, pacing slowly to one side of the deck. Low talk began around the wheel.

It stopped when he approached again. Could they be discussing him? Years of his own time at the wheel told him that they were—

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and anything else that might pass the hours of a night watch.

Oddly comforted, he made play of going to the ship’s side and inspecting the wake as if he was expecting something, but his senses suddenly pricked to full alertness—there were sounds that did not fi t. He spun round. An indistinct group of men lurched into view from the main hatchway. Even in the semi-darkness he could see that two were supporting a third, slumped between them. Another followed behind.

He recognised the voice of the boatswain but not those of the other men, who were moaning and arguing. Kydd hurried to the light of the binnacle. “Yes, Mr Pearce?” he snapped at the boatswain.

The moaning man was lowered to the deck in a sprawl. “Fetch the corporal with a night-lanthorn,” Kydd snapped, “and ask the doctor to—”

“Sir,” Pearce began heavily, “Ord’nary Seaman Lamb, sir, taken in drink in th’ orlop.”

“What’s this, y’ useless skulker? Think t’ swill out o’ sight, do you?” Kydd spat venomously.

The violence of his anger shocked him and he knew he had overreacted. He pulled himself together. “What’s y’r division?”

“L’tenant Adams, sir,” Lamb said thickly, touching his fore-lock in fear.

“Said it’s his birthday, sir.”

The white face of the offender stared up at Kydd from the deck. Lamb struggled to stand but fell back.

Kydd could easily picture what had happened. With typical generosity his messmates had plied him with illicitly hoarded rum in celebration. He had staggered down to the orlop to sleep it off, then had the misfortune to encounter the boatswain on his rounds.

Kydd’s sympathies swung to the lad. Life on the lower deck in

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107

the cold north Atlantic was not pleasant and seamen looked for any kind of release—generally rum.

But there was no real escape. A ship of war that might in minutes fi nd itself yardarm to yardarm with an enemy was no place for a drunken hand at the guns. Kydd’s duty was plain. “Sleeps it off in irons, t’ front the captain in the forenoon.” Houghton would have no mercy and tomorrow there would be pain and suffering at the gangway.

Kydd turned his back and paced away. He had no stomach for any scenes of pitiful begging but there were only muffl ed gasps and grunting as the young sailor was hauled away.

“Bring him forward.” Houghton stood rigid, his lips clamped to a thin line, his hands behind his back as Lamb was brought before the lectern.

“Take orf that hat!” growled the master-at-arms. The youth’s thatch of hair ruffl ed in the wind that buffeted down over the half-deck. His open face was set and pale, but he carried himself with dignity.

On one side of the captain Kydd attended for the pros ecution, on the other was Adams. “Well?” snapped the captain, turning to Kydd.

“Sir, Ordinary Seaman Lamb. Last night at six bells o’ the fi rst watch the boatswain haled this man before me under suspicion o’ drink.” Caught by the boatswain, prostrate with drink before the offi cer-of-the-watch, there was not the slightest chance of denial. But the grim ritual of the trial must be completed.

“And was he?”

Kydd’s answer would be the boy’s condemnation. “He—he was incapable.” He had had as much chance of avoiding those words as Lamb had of escaping the lash.

“I see. Mr Adams?”

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“Sir. This lad is young. It was his birthday and his shipmates plied him with grog in celebration but, sir, in his youth and in-experience he was unable to resist their cajolery. It’s nothing but youth and warm spirits—”

“This is of no account! At sea there is no excusing a man-o’-war’s man being found beastly drunk at any hour, when paid by the King to hold himself in readiness to defend his country! Have you anything to add as witness to his character?”

“Er, Lamb is a willing hand. His ropework is admired by all in the maintop. And, er, he volunteered into
Tenacious
and is always forward in his duty . . .”

The captain glanced once at Adams, then fi xed Lamb with a terrible stare. “Have you anything to say for yourself, you rogue?”

Lamb shook his head and bit his lip. “Then I fi nd you guilty as charged. Two dozen!” Lamb went white. This was savage medicine, quite apart from the theoretical limit of a dozen strokes allowed a captain at sea.

“
Haaands
lay aft to witness punishment—
aaaall
the hands.”

Boatswain’s mates strode about above and below decks with their piercing silver calls, summoning witnesses to justice. As would be the way of it from now on, Kydd remained out of sight below in the wardroom, avoiding conversation until the word was passed down for the fi nal ceremony.

“Offi cers t’ muster!” squeaked a messenger at last. Solemnly, the offi cers left the wardroom and made their way up to the quarterdeck. There, the gratings were rigged, one lashed upright to the half-deck bulkhead and one to stand on. The ship’s company were mustered ready, a space of open deck, then a sea of faces stretching forward. Kydd avoided their gaze, moving quickly up the ladder to the poop-deck.