Renzi smiled and struck a pose.
Is she not beautiful! her graceful bow
Triumphant rising o’er enamored tides,
That, glittering in the noonday sun, now
Just leap and die along her polished sides!
“Just so, shipmate!” Kydd replied happily. He was envious of Renzi’s easy familiarity with words but enjoyed their display.
“Do you take a tuck in my waistcoat, I would be infinitely obliged,” Renzi said, and squatted next to Kydd. He was struck by how much his friend had changed in just a few brief months. There was development and definition in his chest and arms, which sat well with his increasingly sea-darkened complexion, and his shining black hair was held back in a small queue. His experiences had toughened and shaped him, and his brown eyes now looked out with humor and self-assurance.
“Give you joy of your rating, sir,” Renzi said formally.
“Why, it’s to Ordinary Seaman, is all,” Kydd said.
Renzi perceived the evident pleasure. “In Guildford they would not recognize you, Tom,” he said, “what with the cut o’ the jib of a seaman.”
“Not that I’ve ever a chance of gettin’ to the old town,” Kydd replied, finishing the seam with a flourish of his capable brown fingers and biting off the thread.
Renzi hesitated, then pulled something from his pocket. Looking around, he pressed it on Kydd. “It’s only a book, my friend, but in my time I’ve taken great comfort from its pages.”
Kydd accepted it, flattered that Renzi thought he was a reading man. It was a slim volume printed with a tiny typeface — poetry by someone called Wordsworth.
“The man is a revolutionary — in the literary way, I mean,” Renzi said. “You will sense the freedom and vitality. His verses are a paean to the sublime assertion of the individual; he brings … But, then, you’ll see all this for yourself, Tom,” he concluded lamely.
Kydd looked at his friend, touched by his thought. He fiddled in his waistcoat. “And I have something f’r you,” he said, bringing out a screw of paper, which he handed over.
Carefully Renzi undid the paper. Inside was a good six ounces of small dark whorls, thin disks of the most fragrant tobacco he had ever encountered. “My friend, this is magnificent!”
Kydd was well pleased at the unfeigned delight. He had learned how to make a prick of tobacco from one of the gunner’s mates with whom he had shared a watch in one of the hanging magazines. A wad of good strong tobacco leaves was spread on flannel. Sprinkled with rum, it was rolled up and tied to a deckhead cleat with spun yarn, rotated tightly along its length and left for a week or so. The resulting hard plug was then cut with a razor-sharp knife into thin disks of shag.
Appreciatively, Renzi drew out his clay pipe and rubbed himself a fill. Soon a powerful fragrance was on the wind and Renzi settled back against the carronade slide with a comfortable sigh.
Kydd picked up the waistcoat. Renzi’s body had responded to seaboard life by becoming whipcord thin, and the garment would certainly need another tuck. He threaded the needle. “So much for the Mongseers!” Kydd grimaced. “Never a sign of ’em, and we trail our coats off their ports f’r weeks!”
Renzi’s eyes were closed. “I wonder what’s happening in Paris,” he mused. “The mob will be baying for blood — but whose? The Jacobins ride the tiger — Robespierre needs victories if he is to prevail.” It was not easy to live in this total isolation, without a newspaper, journal or even a rumor when to his certain knowledge the world was in flames.
Doud came up beaming with a tankard of small beer. “Well, Jack Tar, ahoy! I reckon we can’t ask Tom Kydd now to desire the sextant for to pray fer us!” He gave the beer to Kydd, looking at Renzi sideways as he did so.
“You want a wet, Renzi?” he enquired.
“That is most kind in you, Ned,” Renzi said, “and it’s Nicholas, by the way.”
“You are most welcome, Nick,” Doud said, in mocking tones.
“It’s Nicholas,” Kydd said.
Doud grinned and left.
It was glassy smooth, only a long swell moving under the glittering surface of the sea. The sails drew, but only just, Duke William inevitably falling away in the line of three ships as they exercised together.
A distant thud was heard. Another — it sounded like a far-off door slamming. On the quarterdeck, telescopes whipped up and trained on the distant land. Another gun thudded — and a flurry started among the officers.
“What’s that?” Kydd asked. He and Renzi were together now in the mizzen top as Kydd’s station had changed since his advancement to seaman. With a grandstand view of the quarterdeck, they saw the marine drummer boy hastily take position at the main hatch.