Caribbee(24)

‘Go! And get in sea rig!’

With a sketchy salute, Buckle left hurriedly.

Sighing deeply, Kydd knew he had problems. He couldn’t let the ninny take a watch on his own. His first lieutenant Gilbey would have to stand his share, which would not please him. And what the hardened man-o’-war’s men aboard would think of Buckle to serve under …

‘Sir?’ It was the boatswain, knocking softly. He had an odd smile playing on his lips.

‘Yes?’

‘Bit of a predicament is all, sir.’

‘Oh?’ Mr Oakley didn’t often come across problems he needed to take to his captain.

‘Like, it’s the new lootenant. His dunnage don’t fit in his cabin. Three chests an’ other gear he has, sir.’

‘Has he, now. Then he’s to take what he wants as will stow, the rest to go over the side. Clear?’

Grinning openly, the boatswain turned to leave.

‘Oh, and ask Mr Curzon to attend me,’ Kydd added. Buckle would be second officer-of-the-watch to Curzon and Kydd decided to make him responsible so that there was no opportunity for his junior to create a disaster in the taut machine that was a thoroughbred frigate.

It was a fair wind for Jamaica, the reliable north-easterly trades nearly abeam with never a tacking to contemplate, the easiest blue-water sailing possible. Curzon had the deck. Hesitantly his second came up the hatchway and self-consciously fell in behind him.

The watch stared at him in wonder: not only was his uniform stiff new but he wore highly polished hessian boots, a cocked hat a shade too big and a marvellously ruffled shirt peeping out from under his coat.

‘Good God,’ Curzon spluttered, his own plain sea uniform green-tarnished and well-worn.

‘Hello,’ Buckle said brightly. ‘What do you want me to do at all?’

‘We’re on watch. I’m your senior – you call me “sir”.’

‘Oh, right, um, sir.’

‘You should have been here for the handover,’ Curzon said testily. ‘How else can you think to know your course and sail set?’

‘Well, I had s’ much trouble with that odious neck-cloth and things, I can’t think how—’

‘Course west-nor’-west, all sail to royals, nothing in sight,’ Curzon said impatiently.

‘That’s, er, all sail—’

‘If you don’t know, why not take a look at the quartermaster’s slate?’ Curzon’s words were heavy with sarcasm, for it was the officer-of-the-watch himself who chalked in the orders.

‘Aye aye, sir!’ Buckle went to the binnacle. ‘Er, do you mind if I take a look at your slate at all?’ he asked an astonished quartermaster, who handed it over without a word.

He returned to stand companionably next to Curzon. ‘I do want t’ get it straight, you see.’

Curzon rolled his eyes heavenward, then told him, ‘Those men forrard at the fore topmast staysail. They’re slacking – I want that tack hardened in properly. Go and stir them along.’

Buckle strode forward importantly and stopped at the group swigging off. ‘I say, you men! Come along, now – work harder!’

Returning, he was met with a stony-faced Curzon, who curtly ordered him to keep close behind for the remainder of the watch to mark and learn – and woe betide if he once opened his mouth.

Days passed and L’Aurore pressed deeper into the Caribbean. It was now well into the hurricane season and Kydd, who had reason to fear them from his experience of these waters in the past, took to tapping the barometer every time he went below. But the airs remained fine and settled.

In flying-fish weather the boatswain took the opportunity of doing what he could to fettle the rigging – turning worn ropes end for end so wear took place at another spot, re-reeving same-sized lines to different tasks and taking up stretched ropes where they had slackened. The sailmaker sat on deck in the sun, patching and seaming, helped by his mates and skilled able seamen. By the main-mast midshipmen took their instruction in sea skills from the older men.

The gunroom gathered for supper. With Curzon and Buckle in charge of the deck, Gilbey, now off-watch, was idly reading an old newspaper.

The boatswain came in, found his place and sat, tucking a napkin around his neck.

‘Are we a-taunt yet, Ben?’ rumbled the gunner, Redmond.

‘Not as would satisfy any blue-water sailor I knows.’ Oakley reached for the cold meats.

The master polished his spectacles. ‘Still an’ all, eleven knots on a bowline satisfies me.’

Gilbey lowered his paper and glanced around for pickles to add to his cheese as Curzon came in, shaking water off his hat. ‘You’ve left the deck to that damn looby?’ he asked sourly.