'Hey, now, yer mate likes our grog, then,' the black man said happily.
The senior hand banged on the table with his grog can, a little of the rich dark wine spilling. Mature and lined, with an oddly soft voice, he announced, 'We has new chums, mates.' The others paid attention. 'Name's Petit, Elias Petit, 'n' yer already knows Nathan. Yon hulkin' blackamoor — we call 'im Quashee, 'n' if yer wants ter raise a right decent sea-pie, he's yer man.'
Kydd nodded. 'Tom Kydd, an' Nicholas Renzi,' he said, gesturing towards Renzi. He noticed the curiosity that Renzi's manner had evoked, but continued, 'and Pinto, er—'
'Fernando da Mesouta Pinto, your service,' the wall-faced Iberian added smoothly.
'Pinto is a Portugee,' Kydd said, 'and Nicholas is my particular friend,' he concluded firmly.
A thatch-haired lad brought up two kids of food and thumped them on the table.
'Thank 'ee, Luke,' Petit said. The lad up-ended a wooden tub to sit on and looked at the newcomers with the frankness of youth. Petit lifted the lid of one wooden container. "Tis poor stuff only/ he announced defensively, and began doling out the food.
Kydd could hardly believe his eyes. Real china plates instead of squares of dark wood, a pewter spoon and even a fork. And the food! The oatmeal was not only seasoned with herbs but the meat was pig's trotters with collops of real meat — this was a feast.
Petit looked at Kydd curiously. 'So yer likes our scran too,' he said.
Kydd thought of the single galley in the ship-of-the-line serving eight hundred men. You could have anything so long as it could be boiled in the vast coppers. 'Yessir!' he answered. 'We has a saying in Royal Billy which we hear before we begins our salt beef.' He assumed an air of reverence.
'Old horse, old horse, what brought you here?
You've carried me gear for many a year! An' now wore out with sore abuse
They salt you down for sailor's use!
They gaze on you with sad surprise
They roll ye over and bugger y'r eyes
They eat y'r meat and pick your bones And send the rest f Davey Jones!'
Laughing, they fell upon the food. Kydd glanced across the width of the deck to the mess opposite. Doggo, Wong and the others were clearly enjoying their change of fortune also, and a slow wink broke Stirk's oaken face.
'Hear tell as how y'r Blackjack is a tartar,' mumbled Kydd, his mouth full.
'Not as who would say,' Petit replied. 'The cat ain't seen th' daylight this five weeks or more — Cap'n, he knows it's us what fights the ship for 'im, 'n' so he treats us a-right, does he.'
'What about the first luff?' Kydd asked, absent-mindedly tapping a piece of hard-tack on the table. To his surprise no black-headed weevils squirmed out.
'Spershott? Don't say much. Keeps station on the Cap'n always, he does,' said Petit dismissively. 'It's Party yer wants ter watch. Second luff. Thinks he's goin' to make his mark b' comin' down on Rowley, the third — it's Devil-bait agin Harry Flashers all bloody day long.'
'An' Neville,' prompted Quashee.
'An' Neville,' agreed Petit. 'Kinda fourth luff, but supernumer'y — wished on us b' the Admiral who wants to put him in the way of a mort o' prize money, my guess.' He grunted and added, 'But a square sort, I'll grant yer.'
Kydd took another pull at his tankard. The wine was rich and smooth. Adam seemed not to relish it. 'Not to y'r taste, Nathan?' Kydd asked amiably.
The courteous expression did not change. 'Christ abstained.'
'Blue light sailor,' said Petit, wiping his mouth. 'But he dursn't top it the preacher wi' us.'
Kydd nodded, and looking at Adam continued with a smile, Aye, but Christ made damn sure the wedding wasn't dry, though, didn't he!'
Adam looked at him steadily and sipped his drink.
'Where are we headed, do you believe?' Renzi asked.
'Where there's a Frenchy what swims.' Quashee chuckled. He aped a prize agent reluctantly doling out the guineas — so ludicrous was the sight of his bulk going through the motions that the mess fell about helpless.
Petit clapped him on the back. 'True enough, yer black bastard. That is ter say that we're raidin' commerce, which is ter say that ev'rything what is under sail has ter loose tops'ls to us, 'n' we has first pickin's.'
At the fore hatchway the squeal of boatswain's calls cut through the sociability. Reluctantly the sailors rose.
Evening quarters was exercised every day at sea in Artemis. At four bells in the last dog-watch, the entire ship's company closed up for action to the stirring sound of 'Hearts of Oak' on the fife and drum.
Lieutenant Rowley had the gundeck, and stood impassive at the fore hatch. Kydd noted the puffs of white lace that emerged at each sleeve and the luxuriant hair, carefully styled in the new Romantic vogue. His fashionable cynical mannerisms gave the impression of hauteur, heightened by the faultlessly cut uniform. His orders were resonant enough, however. 'Exercise of the great guns — gun captains, in your own time . . .'