The officer’s eyebrows rose in haughty astonishment, and he looked sideways in interrogation at the young officer at his side.
“One of the new pressed men, I think, sir,” the officer replied, and turned to Kydd. “Report to Mr. Tewsley at the forebrace bitts — over there,” he added, pointing impatiently to the square frame at the base of the massive mainmast. Kydd did so, feeling every eye on him.
“Thank you, Kydd,” a lined, middle-aged lieutenant replied, looking at Kydd’s paper. “Bowyer, your mess,” he told a seaman with iron-gray hair, standing near the maze of belayed ropes hanging from their pins at the square framing of the bitts.
“Aye, sir,” the man replied. “Over here, mate. Jus’ do what I tells you to, when I does,” he muttered. The group of officers in the center of the deck conferred, the rest of the ship waiting.
Bowyer leaned forward. “That was the Cap’n you spoke to, cully. Don’t you do that again, ’less you’ve got special reason.”
The discussion among the officers grew heated in the inactivity, the Captain standing passive.
Bowyer looked curiously at Kydd and said in a low voice, “’Oo are you, then?”
“It’s Tom — Thomas Kydd, who was o’ Guildford.”
“Joe Bowyer — an’ keep it quiet, lad,” Bowyer said, from the corner of his mouth. “It’s always ‘silence fore ’n’ aft’ when we’re handling sail for exercise.” He snatched a glance aft. “Jus’ that we’ve done a dog’s breakfast of the sail drill, and someone ’as to catch it in the neck,” he muttered, his voice oddly soft for a long-service seaman.
Kydd noticed the petty officer closest to Tewsley: his face was set and hard as he watched the officers and in his fist was a coiled rope’s end. Kydd stood with the others, unsure even where to put his hands, but the confidence in Bowyer’s open face was reassuring.
Tewsley had the calmness of age, but he also kept his eyes fixed on the group on the quarterdeck.
The Captain turned on his heel and took position before the man at the wheel. He looked up once at the maze of sails and cordage, then down to the teams of waiting men. “Hands to make sail,” he ordered. His voice came thinly, even with the speaking trumpet.
“Sod it!” Bowyer’s curse made Kydd jump. “Captain’s taking over.” Kydd puzzled at the paradox. “Th’ Captain shouldn’t take charge?” he asked.
Bowyer frowned. He gave a furtive look aft and replied gravely, “’Cos he’s not what you might call a real man-o’-war’s man — got his step through arse-lickin’ in Parliament or some such.” He sucked his teeth. “Don’t trust him in sailorin’, yer might say.”
The Captain raised his speaking trumpet again. “Stations to set main topsail.”
Lifting his voice, Tewsley called, “Captain of the quarterdeck!”
Kydd looked about in surprise, expecting another gold-laced officer. Instead the hard-faced petty officer came forward.
“Carry on, Elkins.”
The petty officer rounded on his men. “Youse — double up on the weather buntlines, and you lot t’ the clewlines.” To Bowyer he ordered tersely, “Lee clewlines.”
Elkins moved to the bitts at the base of the mast from which hung masses of ropes, and Kydd noticed that there were openings in the deck on each side down which ropes passed to the deck below. “Stand by topsail sheets, you waisters!” Elkins bellowed.
Bowyer crossed quickly to the row of belaying pins at the ship’s side, just where the shrouds of the mainmast reached the bulwarks — the men already there moved to make room for him.
As much to them as to Kydd he said, “Now, Kydd, when I casts loose, you tails on to the line with the rest o’ them land toggies.”
The tension was almost palpable. Most of the ordinary sailors Kydd could see around him were clearly not of the first order, and he guessed that they were stationed here because they could be brought more under eye from the quarterdeck. All were uneasy and watchful.
The man at the wheel now had a second assisting him in the freshening wind, and the ship showed a more lively response to the hurrying seas.
The Captain brought out a large gold watch and consulted it ostentatiously. “I shall want to see topsails set and sheeted home at least a minute faster. If this is not achieved” — he glanced about him — “then hands will not be piped to dinner until it is.”
At Bowyer’s snort, Kydd turned. “He means no grog until he gets ’is times,” he growled.