No point in going through the orders in detail from the deck, when the captain of the mizzen top was perfectly capable of taking charge on the spot. Kydd wheeled around and snapped, ‘Let go brails and vangs – man the clew outhaul and out spanker!’ The mizzen did not have a course spread on the cro’jack to worry about, but it did have a mighty fore and aft sail, the spanker, and this with not only a lower boom but a substantial gaff that had to be bodily raised apeak.
‘Get those men movin’, the maudling old women!’ he threw irritably at the petty officer of the afterguard in charge of the halliard crew on deck. This was no time to be cautious, here directly under the captain’s eye.
The mizzen topsail yard was nearly hoisted. Kydd bit his lip, but the sail came tumbling down at just the right time. He had been right to trust the men in the top.
‘Lay aloft – loose t’ garns’l!’ Men swarmed up the higher shrouds, while below the topsail was settled. With the sail hanging down limply as it was, Kydd had foreseen the need to haul out the foot forward, and used the old trick of untoggling the top bowlines from their bridles and shifting them to a buntline cringle.
He stole a quick glance at Houghton. The captain stood impassive, waiting.
The topgallant set, it was then just the mizzen royal – and the gaskets came off smartly at just the time the spanker gaff reached its final position. Kydd judged that there would be no need on this occasion for play with a jigger at the spanker outhaul, and simply waited for the motion to cease.
‘Start the halliards b’ a foot or two,’ he warned the afterguard – they had unwisely belayed fully before the order.
Sheepishly they threw off the turns, but Kydd was startled by a blast of annoyance from the captain. ‘What the devil are you about, Mr Kydd? Not yet finished?’
The sprightly sound of ‘Roast Beef of Old England’ on fife and drum echoed up from the main deck. The men had already taken their issue of grog and gone below for the high point of their noonday meal, leaving the deck to the officers and indispensables of the watch. As they returned to work, to part-of-ship for cleaning, Kydd thankfully answered the call and made his way to the wardroom.
The table was spread, wine was uncorked and splashing into glasses; expressions were easing after the morning’s tensions. Laughter erupted at one end of the table and the fragrance of roast pork agreeably filled the air.
‘Your good health, brother!’ Renzi grinned at Kydd over his glass: he had done tolerably well at the main mast that morning, avoiding the captain’s wrath at the last moment by quick-thinking at the braces.
‘Thank ye – and yours, old friend,’ Kydd replied. There was a lot to think about, not the least of which was his standing in this world, so utterly different from that of the seaman.
An insistent tinkling intruded into his thoughts. It was the second lieutenant, tapping his glass with a spoon. ‘Gentlemen, may I have your attention?’ He waited until the talk died. ‘I don’t have to tell you that we shall soon be rejoining the fleet, which means, of course, that we shall need to provision against some months at sea.’
He looked pointedly at Kydd. ‘There are some who are victualled “bare Navy” but have nevertheless seen fit to accept the hospitality of this mess.’ Mystified, Kydd turned to Adams, who merely raised his eyebrows. ‘This is neither fair nor honourable. But be that as it may, in my humble post as mess caterer, I have calculated that we shall need to consider the sum of fifty pounds per annum as a minimum subscription.’
‘Preposterous! That’s more’n five poun’ a head!’ Bryant’s glass trembled in mid-air. ‘What do we get for that?’
Bampton heaved a theatrical sigh. ‘The mess commensal wine by quarter cask is half a pint a day, captain to dinner once a month. We lay in the usual cheeses, barrel oysters, tea and raisins, other conveniences for the pantry, such as cloves, pickles, ginger and the like, and when we consider breakages in glasses and dishes . . .’
Kydd thought of the seaman’s broadside mess, with its square wooden plates and pewter tankards, the men using their own knives. There was little that could be considered breakable, and even the petty officers carried few crockery items in their mess racks. He decided to lie low while discussions raged about the mess subscription. He himself was not pressed for money and he had taken the precaution of appointing an agent. The Caribbean prizes had long yielded their bounty, but Camperdown was promising not only a medal but gun money in surprising degree.
‘That’s settled, then.’ Bampton made a pencil note and sat back. ‘We agree to subscribe the sum of five guineas per head. The officers’ wine store is near empty, and with the usual allowance I believe you shall find room for four dozen apiece – you will be laying in your own cabin stores, of course.