Kydd(15)
Kydd rushed to the side and saw the man, buffeted by the side wake of the ship, quickly sliding astern and away into the gray seas. The man’s arm raised briefly to show he had survived the fall and Kydd turned to see what would be done. The Captain, however, did not move, frozen in a stare forward.
“Sir!” the young officer of the watch entreated. It was not clear whether the Captain had indeed taken over the deck. “Sir, do we go about?”
The Captain stood as though in a trance.
Tewsley threw himself toward the wheel and roared, “Down helm — hard! Get that hatch grating overside. Let go lee main braces, main tack and sheet!” Spinning on his heels, he bawled forward, “Flow head sheets — clear away the lee cutter!” Ponderously the ship’s head fell away from the wind. Tewsley paused and looked toward the Captain, who showed no apparent recognition. “Main clewgarnets and buntlines — up mainsail!”
The great mainsail spilled its wind and began to be gathered up to the yard.
Glancing aft to the far-off tiny dot in the sea, Tewsley snapped, “Brace aback — heave to!” The effect of the backed sails balancing those normally set allowed the vessel to come to a stop, drifting slowly downwind. Touching his hat, Tewsley reported to the Captain, “Ship heaving to, sir. Larboard cutter on yard and stay tackles for launching.”
The Captain’s eyes seemed to focus slowly. “That is well, Mr. Tewsley, but I was looking to Mr. Lockwood to act in this matter.” He stepped over to the poop deck ladder, touching it as though curious, and nodded to the young officer of the watch. “Carry on, Mr. Lockwood,” he said, almost without interest.
From his place Kydd saw the boat hoisted from its chocks and lowered overside. It was a complex process and took far more men to achieve than the size of the boat seemed to suggest would be needed. He joined the crowd at the ship’s side to watch.
It was too distant to see what was happening, and many opinions were expressed, but eventually when the boat drew near again, the chatter died away at the sight of a canvas-covered form lying along the thwarts between the rowers.
The bowman stood in the foresheets and neatly hooked the mizzen chains. The boat lay bobbing alongside, oars tossed vertically. The coxswain stood and cupped his hands. “’E’s dead!” he shouted.
Kydd tailed on to the yardarm whip that hoisted the dead man inboard, secured to the grating. The surgeon, a lugubrious man in rumpled black, pushed through the throng and bent over the still form. “Broken bones and morbid cold — there was never any question.” He did not look up.
* * *
The two bells remaining of the exercise time went slowly for Kydd. The sailor’s sudden transition from hero of a lofty world to dead clay was much to take in. His experiences of death previously had been like Old Uncle Peel in a huddle on the high street, and the solemnity of the succeeding funeral. He pulled himself together. There was nothing he could do for the man.
At eight bells — midday — the peal of the boatswain’s calls ended their drill. The Captain evidently did not wish to press the point about times. “Hands to dinner!”
Bowyer turned to him and said sourly, “Let’s get below. I’ve a need to get outside a grog or two after this.”
Grateful for his invitation, Kydd followed him down the fore hatch-way, arriving in the now familiar gloom of the lower gundeck. It was alive with talk, and the tone of the voices and glaring eyes left him with no doubt about the subject.
They thrust past to reach their mess, which Kydd noticed was conveniently not far from the hatchway, just at the point where the round of the bows straightened into the long sweep aft. He thought to count the number of guns from forward. His mess lay between the third and fourth guns. It was already nearly full and now he would be meeting his messmates. What would they make of an unwilling outsider like himself, who knew not the first thing about their strange, dangerous world?
Bowyer grabbed the lanthorn that hung above the table and held it up next to Kydd’s face. “Listen, you bilge rats,” he said against the din, “this here’s Tom Kydd, pressed man o’ Guildford, an’ he’s our new messmate.”
There was a hush, and Kydd watched the faces turn toward him, varying in expression from frank curiosity to blank disinterest. “Pleased to meet you,” he said, in as neutral a tone as he could manage.
A scornful “Pleased ter meecher!” came from a sharp-faced man on one side. “We don’t have that sorta talk here, cully.”
“Stow it, Howell,” Bowyer said shortly. “Don’t you pay no mind to ’im, the old snarley-yow. He is — or was, I should say — a merchant jack and pressed same as you, ’cept he’s makin’ more noise about it.”