Quarterdeck(16)

Bryant rumbled loudly, ‘Hear him!’

Kydd reddened, and mumbled something. The table remained silent.

‘That may be so,’ exclaimed Adams, ‘but be advised, Kydd, it’s the custom of the service that if you’ve been around the Cape of Good Hope you’re entitled to one foot on the table. If you’ve doubled Cape Horn, both feet on the table, but nothing entitles you to spit to wind’d!’

There was warmth in the easy laughter that followed the old saw. Kydd had no idea that there was such a fraternity in the officers in their wardroom, and he longed to be truly one of them.

Introductions continued. The marine turned out to be a Captain Pringle, with a well-polished line in wardroom wit. It seemed that later a brand-new lieutenant of marines would also grace the ship.

Renzi’s new friend was a Mr Peake, a quietly spoken and erudite gentleman who would be their chaplain, and completing the company, further along, was one not in uniform but wearing a comfortable green-striped waistcoat. He announced himself laconically as Pybus, the ship’s surgeon.

The wardroom dissolved into talk and laughter, and a violin out of sight behind the mizzen mast began a soft piece Kydd did not recognise. At the same time the smell of onion soup filled the air, and silently a bowl appeared before him. Simultaneously, a number of covered dishes arrived.

‘Kydd, dear fellow, may I assist you to some of these fresh chops?’ Adams said, as Kydd finished his soup. ‘Sadly, we shan’t see their like again, I fear, before we next make port.’

Behind the chair of each officer stood a seaman or marine to wait at table; Tysoe was at the back of Kydd. Adams waited until he had withdrawn to see to Kydd’s glass. ‘That old blackamoor you have there, come down in the world since he was valet de chambre to Codrington, who, you might recollect, died of an apoplexy in our very great cabin.’ He leaned forward. ‘You don’t have to stay with the old fellow – ask Pringle for a marine, they know the sea service.’

Kydd looked round at the other servants. There was none who appeared to be above thirty; Tysoe had substantial grey in his bushy hair. Having seen the scrimmages that sometimes took place as servants jostled to see their masters’ needs met first, he had his doubts that Tysoe would hold his own. But something about the man’s quiet dignity touched Kydd. There were advantages to youth, but different ones with maturity and, besides, were they not both outsiders? ‘Er, no, I’ll keep Tysoe,’ Kydd answered.

He saw the glow of contentment in the others as his eye roved over the animated officers. Eddying talk rose and fell, then lulled. He heard Bampton call down to him, his voice studied and casual: ‘Kydd, something or other tells me you’re no stranger to the lower deck. Can this be right?’

Bryant frowned. The table fell quiet, and faces turned to Kydd.

He took a deep breath. ‘True, very true, sir. I was untimely taken up as a pressed man and, unable t’ run, I find myself still here.’

Awkward grins surfaced, and Pringle murmured to the table in general, ‘That won’t please the owner – not by half, it won’t.’

Bampton persisted: ‘Was this not alarming? For your family is what I mean.’

‘Damn it all!’ Bryant exploded, glaring at Bampton. ‘We were promised figgy duff – where the devil is it?’

It was a pearly calm winter’s day when Kydd appeared for duty on the deck of the man-o’-war, a King’s officer. After their pressed men had been claimed and come aboard, the ship’s company would be mustered by open list into divisions and Kydd would see his men for the first time.

A hoy from the receiving ship came alongside in a flurry of flapping canvas and shouted orders. Kydd continued to pace the quarterdeck, the arrival of pressed men not his concern. Out of sight, in the waist below, the first lieutenant would be setting up to receive them, rating the seamen by their skills and consigning the rest – landmen – to the drudgery of brute labour.

Kydd felt contentment at the thought that within a week or so this deck would be alive and heeling to the stern winds of the open ocean.

Renzi fell into step beside him.

‘Nicholas! How did y’ sleep?’ Kydd’s own experience had not been of the best. Alone in the dark, he had tried to keep the thoughts that surged through him under control. The cot, a square-sided canvas frame suspended from the deckhead, was comfortable, but he had not realised that bedding was his own responsibility, and were it not for Tysoe’s silent intercession, he would have gone without.

‘Well, it must certainly be admitted, our elevation to society in this watery world has its distinct attractions.’ Renzi wore an indulgent smile, which triggered a jet of frustration in Kydd. After his own experiences, it was galling to see Renzi take to his new life so easily.