“And where were we at the purser’s?”
“Well, I didn’t say we had no more decks under the waterline,” Bowyer said. “In fact, me old gullion, we have the orlop under the lower gundeck, and that was where you was before.”
He cracked his knuckles. “Interestin’ place, the orlop. Right forrard you get the boatswain and Chips. They both have their cabin and their stores. But turn round and right aft you get the sawbones, the purser and
He looked down, as though the deck were transparent. “And all the middle bit is where the anchor cables are laid out in tiers, and where yer go down inside the gun magazines. Lots o’ dark, rummy places about, down in the orlop. Wouldn’t advise rovin’ about down there without yer’ve got a friend.” He swung round with a grin. “And then all that’s left below is the hold. But I guess yer know all about that – it’s where the pressed men go afore we sails. It’s where all the water and vittles are stowed, and when we clears for action all the gear gets sent down there.” Bowyer punched him on the shoulder. “So now you knows all the decks, we’ll go visit ’em!”
There was no hanging back, and for the remainder of the watch Kydd found himself plunging after Bowyer – down ladders, along rows of huge guns, on gratings out above the sea and, in fact, to places it was impossible to believe might belong on a ship of war. A cookhouse with monstrous cauldrons simmering over an iron-hearted fire. A manger, complete with goats and chickens. A cockpit – but no cocks that Kydd could detect. And many – multitudes – of objects and places that Bowyer clearly thought important, but had no meaning to Kydd.
They happened to be under the boats when four double strikes sounded from the belfry just above. “Know what that means, Tom? It’s ‘up spirits’ and then supper, me old griff!”
In a whirlpool of impressions Kydd followed Bowyer down to the lower gundeck and the welcome fug of the mess. Howell looked up sourly. “You tryin’ to make Kydd a jolly Jack Tar, then, Joe?”
“You sayin’ he shouldn’t be?” Bowyer snapped.
“I’m sayin’ as how he don’t know what he’s a-comin’ to. He’s not bred to the sea, he’s a landlubber, don’t belong.” He became heated. “Can you see him out on the yard in a gale of wind, doin’ real sailorin’? Nah. All his days he’s gonna be on his knees and arse up with a holystone – that is, when he’s not huckin’ out the heads or swiggin’ off on the braces!” He leaned forward and told Bowyer earnestly, “’S not right fer you to fill his head with grand ideas – he’s never going to be a sailorman. Sooner he knows it, better for him.”
Pointedly ignoring him, Bowyer took down their mess traps. “We’ve got first dog-watch straight after, so we takes a bit o’ ballast aboard now, Tom, mate!”
It was still light on deck, showing up the swarm of small vessels around them, which were seizing the opportunity to slip down Channel with an unofficial escort of such unchallengeable might.
Kydd followed Bowyer closely, apprehensive because this was to be his first sea watch, and gingerly joined the waiting group near the main-mast.
“You! Yeah – the cow-handed sod with Bowyer!” Elkins’s grating shout broke into his thoughts. There was an animal ferocity in the hard face and Kydd froze. “Come here, you useless grass-combin’ bastard.” Elkins thrust his face forward. “If ever you makes a sawney o’ me afore the quarterdeck again, you’re fishmeat, cully!”
Kydd felt defiance rising, but he kept silent, trying to withstand the assault of the man’s glare.
Abruptly, Elkins seized his jacket savagely in both hands at the throat and pulled him to his toes. Speaking softly and slowly, but with infinite menace, he said, “A lumpin’ great lobcock like you would do well to know where he stands afore he thinks to get uppity – you scavey?”
The hard, colorless eyes seemed to impale Kydd’s soul. The thin lips curled. “O’ course yer do, cully,” he said. “You’re a Johnny Raw, new caught, who’s goin’ to learn his place right quick – ain’t that the case?”
He released Kydd slowly, keeping him transfixed.
Bowyer’s troubled voice came in from behind Kydd. “No call fer that, Mr. Elkins,” he said.
Elkins turned on him.
“I’ll be lookin’ out for Kydd, don’t you worry, Mr. Elkins.” He grabbed Kydd’s arm and steered him back to the mainmast. A young officer watched, frowning.
“Don’t do to cross Elkins’s bows, shipmate,” Bowyer muttered, pretending to test the tension of a line at the bitts.
Kydd had never backed down from anyone in his life – even the raw-boned squire’s son treated him with care. But this was another situation, filled with unknowns.
“See there, Tom” – Bowyer was trying to engage his attention -“we’re bending on the new mizzen t’gallant.” Kydd allowed his interest to be directed to the second farthest yard upward at the mizzen. Men were spreading out along the yard, that side that he could see past the large triangular staysails soaring up between the two masts. “You’ll remember we saw Mr. Clough and his mates sewing in the tabling for the t’gallant bolt-rope?”
Kydd recalled his curiosity as they stepped around the cross-legged men busily plying their needles. Those were no delicate darning nee dles: instead they were long and heavy, three-sided implements, which they drove through the stout canvas using a leather device strapped to their palms.
“Clap on here, mate,” said Bowyer. “We’re sending up yer sail now to fix on to its yard.” A long sausage of canvas had made its way on deck, and an astonishing amount of rope lay in long coils next to it. “We uses the buntlines to haul it up for bending, but it being a t’gallant and all, the line is too short to come from aloft, so we bends on some extra.”
Kydd let it all wash over him. It was beyond his powers to retain, but he was sure that Bowyer would be on hand later to explain. At the present moment he urgently needed to find his bearings and, indeed, himself.
The watch passed quickly in a flurry of hauling, belaying and repeating this on other ropes in sequence with events, the canvas sausage making its way up the mast to its final glory as a trim, smartly set sail. Dusk was well and truly drawing in when the pealing of boatswains’ calls erupted forward. “There yer go, Tom, the Spithead nightingales are singin’. Larbowlines are on deck now, ’n’ we can go below – but first we’ve somethin’ to do, brother.”
Kydd followed him down to the lanthorn-lit forward end of the main deck. It was crowded with men, gathered closely around a quartermaster’s mate standing just abaft the foremast, and next to a small pile of clothing and other gear. Lieutenant Tewsley was there, hat held informally in his hand and his seamed face somber.
Bowyer coughed self-consciously. “This is what we do for them what goes over the standin’ part of the foresheet.”
At Kydd’s look of incomprehension he said, “That is to say, them which tops their boom dies at sea – like Ollie Higgins did this forenoon off the mainyard.”
Kydd felt a stab of guilt at the stark memory of the man cartwheeling into the sea, knowing that it had been buried in the avalanche of images and experiences to which he had been subjected since.
Bowyer continued, in a low voice, “We gets into Spithead tomorrow, so we holds an auction on his clobber now. If we c’n find a little silver for ’is widow, well, it’s somethin’.”
The auction proceeded, low shouts as bids were cast and clothing fingered in quiet remembrance. Noticing Bowyer involved in the bidding, Kydd wondered what to do. There were only pennies left of what he had had in his pocket when pressed, and only volunteers received the bounty.
“’Ere you are, Tom,” Bowyer said, and passed over a well-worn sea-man’s knife and sheath. “Ollie was a topman, and you can trust ’is steel to be the best.” Kydd hesitated. “Go on, mate, take it – he won’t be needin’ it now, and he’d be happy it’s still goin’ to do its dooty.”
Kydd’s helpless fumbling at his pocket made Bowyer touch his arm. “Don’t worry about that, mate. You’ll find nobody cares about us – we ’as to look to ourselves. Yer’ll not see a penny o’ yer pay for half a year or more, so we’ll square yardarms some other time.”
Self-consciously, Kydd undid his broad belt and strapped on the knife, settling the sheath into place on the flat of his right buttock as Bowyer had his.
Bowyer paid over several more silver coins and was handed a crackling bundle of olive-gray skins. “This is what yer’ll reckon best, Tom, out on the yard in a winter nor’easter – an honest sealskin warmer under your jacket. Keeps out the cold like a hero.”
Outside the purser’s store on the orlop Kydd tried again. “Look, Joe, you don’t have to -”
“Leave it be, Tom!” Bowyer said, gruffly.
Kydd drew his issue hammocks and meager bedding. Bowyer fingered it doubtfully. “Listen, mate, only way yer goin’ to get a good kip in a hammacoe is if I tells yer how. So let’s be at it – we’re on watch right after hammocks are piped down. I’ll give yer a hand.” Bowyer clicked his tongue at the haphazard bundle of stiff new canvas and
