Kydd(26)

“All hands! The hands ahoy! All hands on deck — lay aft!” The boatswain’s mates echoed each other along the gundeck.

“Well, mates, we says our farewells to Johnny Hawbuck, I believe.” Bowyer seemed relieved at the swift return of the Captain and therefore early resolution of the situation.

Howell stirred. “Aye, but that means it’s going to be Mantrap instead — it’ll be a hell ship.”

Claggett broke through the murmuring: “Maybe, but don’t count on it. Black Dick’ll have his cronies he’ll want to satisfy, ’n’ who knows? We could get a real tartar like Bligh!”

“Could be — but at least Bligh was a reg’lar built sailorman. Damn near four thousan’ miles in that longboat ’n’ never lost a man.”

Whaley punched Doud playfully. “Yeah — and at least now we’ll know if it’ll be the larbowlines first ashore.”

It was the first time that Kydd had seen both watches of the ship’s company mustered together on deck, nearly eight hundred men. Bowyer had been right — the figure of the Captain stood clear above them at the forward nettings of the poop deck, waiting as the men congregated below. His officers stood behind, rigid and ill at ease. From all parts of the ship seamen came, covering the quarterdeck from the binnacle to the gangways. Quickly the rigging filled with men eager to improve their view.

Kydd, with his messmates, took position near the center, by the rail of the main companionway.

“Can’t say Mantrap looks well pleased — wonder why?” Bowyer muttered.

Claggett looked bemused. “No sign of the new owner. Surely they’re not giving Shaney Jack his step over Tyrell?”

Pinto’s vicious curse drew a sharp look from the petty officers.

Wong grunted. “If him, I Hung Fu Chi!” The contempt in his bland face was the first expression Kydd had ever seen on it.

The wondering murmurs continued until Caldwell nodded at Tyrell, who snapped, “Still!” at the boatswain.

From a dozen silver calls a single steady note pealed. A slight shuffling of feet and silence spread. Captain Caldwell strode forward to the break of the poop to take position, legs astride, hands behind his back. In front of him, the ship’s company of Duke William: petty officers, hard men, the freely acknowledged backbone of the Navy; the tarry-pigtailed long-service able seamen, relaxed but wary; the idlers — the armorer, cooper, sailmaker, carpenter and their mates in their outlandish working clothes; the yeomen — coxswain, quartermasters, gunner’s mates; and the landmen, anxious, not understanding.

The Captain cleared his throat and began. “I’ve called you all aft to tell you the news.” His voice, not strained in shouting orders, was a pleasant patrician baritone. “But first I want to congratulate the fo’c’slemen on their quick thinking this morning. It may have prevented an unfortunate accident from occurring. Well done.”

There was a ripple of indistinct comment.

He paused, looking grave. “We shall need that sort of initiative and attention to duty where we will be going.”

Significant looks were exchanged. If Caldwell was talking about sea duty in the near future, then not only would estimates of leave time ashore need to be revised but they would be putting out into the Atlantic winter in an old, leaky vessel in certain peril of their lives. Faces hardened and attitudes took on a sullen cast as they waited for what came next.

“As most ready for sea, we sail in a little while on a very important task. A vital task, and one on which England’s very existence may depend.”

Disbelieving stares and mutters came from all sides: the men had been quick to notice Caldwell’s use of “we” — clearly he had got away with it, there would be no new captain.

“You don’t need me to remind you that we are now at war with France. And this time we’re dealing with a set of murderous bandits who will stop at nothing.” His voice whipped and rose in dramatic flourishes. “We proceed with Tiberius and Royal Albion with frigates for the coast of France to clamp our hold on their deep-sea ports in time to prevent their fleet coming out to fall upon these islands. And our folk at home are right to put their trust in us to defend them. Ours is the just cause and ours will be the victory. Let me hear your spirit, men — an huzzah for old England! Let me hear it!”

There were sparse cheers and stony looks.

“And another for our brave ship!”

The cheers held a little more conviction.

“A three times three for His Majesty!”

This time the shouts were more good-humored, for it was not the amiable “Farmer George” who was the cause of their immediate discontent. Volleys of cheers echoed over the water, Caldwell and all the officers marking time with their hats.