Quarterdeck

Renzi looked up, shamefaced. 'I'd be obliged should you lend me a shirt or two, Tom—there will be a quantity of social occasions in Newfoundland, I've heard.' A surge of feeling surprised Kydd with its intensity as he fetched them, but he said nothing. A stubborn pride still remained, which would not allow him to burden Renzi with the problem.

Renzi left with a hasty wave. Pringle emerged from his cabin the picture of military splendour, a pair of pigskin gloves in one hand, a swagger stick in the other. He noticed Kydd, gave a noncommittal grunt, then he, too, strode away. Servants came to clear the afternoon clutter, looking at Kydd warily. There was nothing for it but to retire to his cabin.

Pride would not let him inveigle himself into another's invitation—besides, he might find himself in a situation that would end in his making a spectacle of himself again. He burned with embarrassment at the recollection of his conversation at table. What could they think of an officer as crassly ignorant as any foremast hand?

The wardroom was clear again; he paced about, morose. A book lay on the rudder-head. He wandered over idly and pulled it out: Observations on the Current War, by an Officer of Rank. It was full of maps and diagrams, painstakingly hatched with tiny lines and minuscule lettering. It covered in great detail every military campaign of the war so far.

He had never had an interest in the interminable toing and froing that seemed to be the lot of the Army, but this book had an introductory treatment for each theatre of war, which sounded robust and useful. His spirits rose a little. This at least was something constructive he could do—learn some facts to ward off assumptions of ignorance.

It was a workmanlike book, and the treatment was clear and direct but, even so, talk of why the Duke of York had considered the Austrian Netherlands worth a hopeless campaign was baffling, mainly because it assumed a degree of familiarity with the political background that he did not have.

He persevered, going to each introduction in turn and stitching together a basic understanding on which he could hang his facts. Yet as he did so, he found his attention held by the implications of what he was reading: armies and trade—expressions of a nation's economic strength, but vulnerable to the quixotic twists of fate and man's plotting.

It was a new experience for Kydd. He read on until a fundamental realisation stole over him. He set down the book and stared into space. Until now he had unconsciously thought of his ship as a boundary to his world. He could step ashore in foreign parts and see sights impossible for most, but he could always return to his snug little world and sail away. There, the dangers of the sea and the malice of the enemy were reality.

Now it was all changed. Events in one part of the world could reach out and touch an officer, have grave military and legal consequences if a wrong decision was made. They might conceivably damn his career or even cause an international incident. In essence, an officer dealt with the wider world; the common seaman did not.

'Mr Kydd!' Bryant's bellow reached effortlessly from the quarterdeck to the fo'c'sle where Kydd had taken refuge from the marines drilling loudly on the poop-deck under an enthusiastic Lieutenant Best.

Hastily Kydd made his way aft. 'I've been called away, damn it, an' just when we're due a parcel o' new men. Should be coming aboard this hour. Bring 'em aboard, if y' please, and take all the able-bodied but, mark this, send all the rubbish back—we don't want 'em, right?'

'Aye aye, sir. Are they pressed men?'

'Not all. We've got a press warrant out, but most o' these are merchant jacks, tired of winterin', and odd sods off the streets. We can be satisfied with a dozen. I'll rate 'em when I get back this afternoon.' Bryant jammed on his hat and stalked off.

Kydd warned off a duty midshipman to desire the surgeon to hold himself in readiness, the purser to his slops and the boatswain to provide a holding crew. It was a well-worn routine: the need for men in any man-o'-war was crucial. Even if the ship was in first-class shape, battle-ready and stored, it was all a waste without men to work her. Kydd had no misgivings about what had to be done to achieve this.

'A King's Yard boat, sir,' Rawson reported. The dockyard launch made its way out to them and, as it neared, Kydd leaned over the side to see what was being brought. Looking up at him were a scatter of winter-pale faces, some listless, others alert, some sunk in dejection. A stock collection—the seamen among them would show immediately: they would have no trouble with the side-steps and bulwark.

The mate-of-the-watch took charge. It would not be seemly for Kydd to appear until the men were inboard and assembled; he disappeared into the lobby.

It seemed so long ago, but into his mind, as clear as the day it had happened, came his own going aboard the old battleship Duke William as a pressed man, the misery, homesickness, utter strangeness. Now these men would face the same.

'New men mustered, sir.'

Kydd tugged on his hat and emerged on to the quarterdeck, aware of all eyes on him. They were bunched together in a forlorn group near the mainmast. 'Get them in a line, Mr Lawes,' he ordered.

A more odd assortment of dress was difficult to imagine. Bearskin hats and well-worn animal-hide jackets, greasy-grey oily woollens and ragged trousers, even two with moccasins. More than one was stooped by ill- nourishment or age. Some, the ones standing alert and wary, with blank faces, carried well-lashed seaman's bags.

'I'll speak t' them now, Mr Lawes.'

The shuffling and murmuring stopped. He stepped across to stand easily in front of them, waiting until he had their eyes. 'My name's L'tenant Kydd. This is HMS Tenacious. We're a ship-of-the-line an' we're part of the North American Squadron, Admiral Vandeput.'

Stony stares met him. The men were clearly resigned to a fate known to some, unknown to others.

'C'n I see the hands o' the volunteers?' A scatter of men signified. 'You men get th' bounty in coin today, an' liberty later t' spend it. The rest . . .' Kydd continued: 'When this war started, I was a pressed man, same as you.' He paused for effect. It startled some, others remained wary. 'Rated landman in a second rate. An' since then I've been t' the South Seas in a frigate, the Caribbean in a cutter and the Mediterranean in a xebec. I've got a handsome amount o' prize money and now I'm a King's officer.

So who's going t' say to me the Navy can't be th' place to be for a thorough-going seaman who wants t' better