Next to Howell a pleasant-faced lad stood up and leaned over to offer his hand. “Dick Whaley, pressed outa the Maid o’ Whitby, same as Jonas here.” Kydd took the hand gratefully.
Howell snorted. “What he’s not sayin’ is that I was bo’sun aboard while he was afore the mast — and don’t he forget it!”
Whaley laughed. “And here we’re a pair of foremast jacks both. At least we’ve a chance fer some prize money. In the old Maid we was just floggin’ up and down the coast with a belly full of sea-coal, and never the sight of a frolic.”
“Let him sit, Joe.” At the ship’s side was a considerably older seaman, nearly covered with faded tattoos. His mild, seamed face gazed steadily at Kydd.
Bowyer thumbed at the old sailor. “That’s Samuel Claggett, fo’c’sle-man to the quality. Been aboard since the last age, so we ’as to keep ’im in humor.”
While Kydd found his place at the end of the bench the conversations took up again. Diffident, he said nothing and tried to listen to the others. His eyes slid to the men opposite and were caught, to his astonishment, by the glittering black orbs of a Chinaman, the first he had ever seen. The man sat without speaking, his shaven head reflecting the lanthorn glow. Bowyer noticed Kydd’s start of surprise and said, “Say ‘how’ to Wong, then.”
“Er, how!”
“Ni hau!” the man replied.
“Wong Hey Chee, able seaman and right heathen but a good hand aloft when it comes on to blow.” Bowyer’s introduction did nothing to affect Wong’s steady stare. “Was a strong man in a circus, was Wong,” Bowyer continued admiringly.
Kydd shifted his gaze to the last man, opposite Claggett.
The man gave him a civil nod, but remained wordless. He had a sensitive face, which bore the unmistakable mark of intelligence. His eyes were dark and unsettling.
“Yes — an’ that’s Renzi,” Bowyer said. He leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Says nothing, keeps to himself. A rum cove, if you asks me. I’d leave him be, mate, bit quick on the trigger ’e can be.”
Kydd looked back at Renzi and realized what was bothering him. Although clearly at home in a comfortable but plain seaman’s rig, the man did not have the open, trusting manner of a sailor. Neither did he have the close-gathered tarry queue of the older seaman, or the long side-whiskers and wild hair of the younger. His almost blue-black hair was as short as a monk’s. He was further taken aback when he realized that the man’s gaze could best be termed a glare. He wondered if he had offended in some way.
His thoughts were interrupted by shouts of appreciation greeting the arrival of the grog monkey, a well-used, two-eared wooden kid. It was thumped on the table in front of Claggett, who lost no time in sending an odd assortment of pots and tankards, well filled, back to their expectant owners.
“That’s yourn, then, Kydd.” He slid over a brassbound wooden drinking vessel. Kydd lifted it. It was old-fashioned, the size and shape favored by thirsty countryfolk, but where they would fill it with cider or beer, the sweetness of rum eddied up to him. He was amazed — there was well over a pint of the liquid.
“Here’s to you, Tom lad,” Bowyer said, and upended his own pot.
Kydd felt an unexpected flush of pleasure at the use of his forename. “And Mr. Garrett — damn his whistle,” he replied, lifting his tankard in salute. The taste had an unexpected coolness.
Bowyer’s eyes creased. “Three-water grog, this is only. You’ll be lucky ter get grog twice a week in Royal Billy — you’re catching on, mate!”
They both drank deeply. The liquor spread warmth through Kydd’s vitals and he could feel the anxiety draining from him. A smile broke through.
“That’s the ticket! Can be a hard life, a sailor’s, but there are, who shall say, the compensations!”
Kydd drank again and, amid the animated ebb and flow of talk, studied his shipmates once more. Wong was listening impassively to Whaley describing the hardships of a voyage to Esbjerg, while Claggett was speaking softly to a man sitting next to him.
Kydd lifted his pot to drink, but as it tilted he saw over the rim that Renzi’s glowering, intense eyes were on him. Disconcerted, he gave a weak smile and took a long pull at his grog. The eyes were still on him, and he noticed the unusual depth of the lines incised at each side of Renzi’s mouth.
“Where’s that useless Doud? We’ll die of hunger else,” Howell demanded. The others ignored him.
“Hey-ho, mates, and it’s pease pudding and Irish horse!” A wiry, perky young man arrived and swung a pair of wooden kids under the end of the table.