Artemis(71)

Sliding down the hatchway ladder, Kydd went aft to the broad cabin. Outside was a marine sentry. Kydd knocked carefully and heard an indistinct reply, which he took to be 'Enter.'

Powlett was at his desk, as usual without a wig - he never wore one at sea. His close-cropped hair lent intensity to his demeanour.

The cabin was neat and Spartan, the only concession to humanity a miniature of a woman on the bulkhead and below it another of an angelic child. The rest of the room was dominated by the squat bulk of a pair of six-pounders and a deeply polished chart table. Kydd stood before his captain, hat in hand, and waited.

'Thank you, Kydd,' Powlett said, finishing writing. He jabbed the quill back into the ink-pot and leant back. 'I have a problem,' he said, in a tone that suggested problems didn't annoy him for long.

'Sir.'

'You may know we lost eleven men at Macao, seven by sickness.'

Kydd did not know: he had had problems of his own at the time.

'We can't replace men so easily in this part of the world.' He looked directly at Kydd. 'I've a mind to rate you quartermaster's mate. What do ye think of that?'

Nothing had been further from his mind. And now - it was undreamt of! He would be a petty officer, admittedly one of the most junior aboard, but he had achieved a precious step up, he had . . .

'Well?'

'I'd like it fine, sir’ he stammered.

'Then you are so rated. The first lieutenant will attend to your watch and station.' Powlett fixed Kydd with flinty eyes. 'You are a fine seaman - I can see this, which is why I gave you your step. You have a future, but you can be disrated just as easily. See that you are zealous in your work and stay away from the bottle, and you may have no fear of that.'

'Aye aye, sir!' Kydd said.

Quartermaster's mate - Petty Officer Kydd! He left the first lieutenant's cabin in a haze of joy. It was only a matter of stepping into a sick man's shoes, he rationalised, but his inner self smugly replied, Who cares?

Then Sarah's image flashed before him, dampening his mood. He felt for her pain. Perhaps one day they could meet again in some other way ...

Slowly his thoughts refocused. Whatever the reason, he was now rated a petty officer. His main duty would be on the quarterdeck, as mate to the quartermaster who had the conn under the officer in command — responsibility for the helm and helmsmen. A quartermaster owed his loyalty to the sailing master, who was probably the most sea professional of all aboard.

Kydd wondered if it had been his skill at the wheel that had won him the post. He enjoyed his trick at the helm, feeling the waves trying playfully to slap the vessel off course and the live vibration of the sea transmitted up through the tiller-ropes, seeing the length of deck curving in at the bow far ahead of the helm, then gently rising and falling under his urging, the whole a connected symphony of motion. He sighed, and rejoined his mess.

* * *

'Quartermaster's mate - that makes you a petty officer,' said Petit seriously. 'Yes, it does.'

'Then you'll be shiftin' your mess tonight?' Petit asked.

Although new-rated, his status entitled him to join one of the senior messes, which were right aft and screened off by canvas. There were only three quartermaster's mates aboard so together they wouldn't make a mess, but he could join the quarter-gunners, the carpenter's crew, or even the elite captains of the tops.

'No, mate, I think I'll stay,' he said uneasily.

'Yer a petty officer, Kydd,' Cundall repeated. The others remained silent, looking at him gravely. Slowly it dawned on him. As a petty officer, he had authority over every one of them including Petit. He couldn't stay as a friend and at the same time do his duty by the ship. And it was asking too much to expect them to treat him as an equal when he wasn't. 'Yair, have to move, I guess.'

Renzi was nowhere to be seen, and Kydd felt a chill of loneliness. He nodded to Petit and said, 'Be on m' way by th' last dog-watch.'

'Luck, cuffin,' said Doud, softly.

Aft, next to the boatswain's cabin, was the screened-off mystery of the quarter-gunners' mess. He scratched on the hanging flap — a face, irritated and querulous, poked out. 'What?' it said.

Kydd blurted out his situation.

'Not 'n here, yer don't.' The face disappeared. The carpenter's crew had their mess snugly fashioned for themselves and did not want another intruding. An idler's mess — the cooper, sailmaker's mates and the like - offered doubtfully, but they were not watchkeepers and their perspectives of life aboard were quite different. Kydd felt he must decline. He felt rootless, an outcast, much as he had felt when he had been thrust aboard his first ship as a pressed man.

'What're you about, mate?' Stirk's voice behind made him jump. 'Bin lookin' fer you half the dog-watch,' he said, looking at Kydd curiously. 'Gotta get yer gear shifted afore pipe down hammocks, or . . .' He pulled aside the canvas screen to a nearby mess and motioned Kydd in. 'This here's Tom Kydd, frien's, quartermaster's mate, just rated.'