“Topsides, gemmun!” the petty officer rasped. “First Lieutenant wants to make yer acquaintance.”
They were herded together, making their way along several gundecks and up endless ladderways to the main deck. Here they were assembled on one side, sheltered from the fitful drizzle by the extension of the quarterdeck above before it gave way to the open area of the boat stowage.
The Master-at-Arms arrived, flanked by his two corporals. He was a stout, florid man with dark piggy eyes that never seemed to settle. “Toe the line, then!” he rumbled at the petty officer.
Shoving the pressed men together, the petty officer showed them how to line up by pressing their toes up against one of the black tarry lines between the deck planking.
From the cabin spaces aft a small party of men emerged; a lectern and a small table were set up. Then an officer appeared in immaculate uniform and cockaded bicorne.
The Master-at-Arms stiffened. “Pressed men, sir!” he reported, touching his hat.
The officer said nothing but stopped, glaring, at the line of men. He took off his hat and thwacked it irritably at his side. He was short, but built like a prizefighter. His dark, bushy eyebrows and deep-set eyes gave him an edgy, dangerous look. The rich gold lace against the dark blue and white of his uniform cloaked him with authority.
In his sensible country fustian, which was now filthy and torn, Kydd felt clumsy and foolish. He tried to look defiantly at the officer while the wind flurried down the boat space, sending him into spasms of shudders.
“I’m Mr. Tyrell, and I’m the First Lieutenant of this ship,” the officer began. “And you’re a parcel of landmen and therefore scum. A worthless damn rabble — but you’re now in the sea service of King George and you’ll answer to me for it.” He stomped across until he was within arm’s length.
Kydd saw that the dark eyes were intelligent as they roved up and down the line. “Forget what you’ve heard about jolly Jack Tar and a life on the rolling waves. It’s a nonsense. We’re now at war, a hot bloody war, and there’ll only be one winner at the end, and that’s going to be us. And we win it by courage and discipline, by God!” He paced past them in a measured tread. “So listen to me! On board this ship you’d better soon understand that we have only one law and that’s called the Articles of War. The quicker you learn that, the better for you.” He paused. “Show ’em the cat, Quentin.”
The Master-at-Arms looked at the boatswain’s mate and nodded. The man stepped forward and, from a red baize bag, carefully extracted a thick, ornate rope handgrip ending in nine strands of much thinner line, each carefully knotted. He teased out the yard-long strands so that they fell in cascade in front of him.
“Every man jack of you is now subject to the Articles of War — and there it says that the penalty for disobedience is death …” Tyrell held his audience in a deadly fascination. “… or such laws and customs in such cases used at sea,” he snarled. “And that means I may need to ask Mr. Quentin to scratch your back with his cat. Isn’t that so, Quentin?”
“Aye aye, sir, Mr. Tyrell.”
In the shocked silence Tyrell paced back to the table, then turned, his eyes cold. He let the silence hang, doing his work for him. No sound from the men broke the deathly hush, but the mournful keening of a pair of seagulls carried clearly across the water.
Tyrell handed his hat to the clerk and took his place at the lectern. The clerk opened a large book and prepared quill and ink. “You will answer my questions now and this will help me decide how best you will serve. I will rate you here and provide watch and station details later to the officer of your division.”
He glanced at the clerk. “Volunteers?”
“None, sir,” the clerk said, expressionless.
Tyrell’s eyebrows rose. “Begin.”
The clerk consulted his book. “Abraham Fletcher,” he called.
A scrawny, apologetic-looking man shuffled forward.
Raising his eyes heavenward, Tyrell asked sarcastically, “Profession, Mr. Fletcher?”
“Tailor’s cutter,” the man mumbled.
“Sir!” screamed the Master-at-Arms, outraged.
“Sir!” agreed the man hastily, knuckling his forehead.
“Then you’re just the man the sailmaker would like to see,” Tyrell said. “See that Mr. Clough gets to know about him. Rated landman, Mr. Warren’s division. Next.”
It did not take long to deal with them all: Tyrell was clearly in a hurry. “Get them to the doctor. If he refuses any, he’s to give his reasons to me personally.” The book slammed shut. “Then they muster at the main capstan, lower deck. Tell the boatswain.”