Darkness had fallen, but it was easy to make out activity on the foredeck by the light of lanthorns hung in the rigging. A hornpipe was being performed beside the jeer bitts of the foremast. Kydd wandered forward unnoticed. The seaman was skilled, his feet flashing forward to slap back rhythmically, the rigid body twirling in perfect time, while his upper body, arms folded, remained perfectly rigid and his face expressionless.
The fiddler finished with a deft upward note and, with a laugh, took a pull at his beer. ‘Ben Backstay!’ The call was taken up around the deck, and eventually a fine-looking seaman from another ship stepped into the golden light and struck a pose.
‘When we sail, with a fresh’ning breeze,
And landmen all grow sick, sir;
The sailor lolls with his mind at ease,
And the song and can go quick, sir.
Laughing here,
Quaffing there,
Steadily, readily,
Cheerily, merrily,
Still from care and thinking free
Is a sailor’s life for me!’
The violin gaily extemporised as cheers and roars delayed the next verse. There was no problem here: these were the core seamen of Tenacious, deep-sea sailors whose profession was the sea. They were the heart and soul of the ship, not pressed men or the refuse of gaols.
With a further burst of hilarity the singer withdrew to receive his due in a dripping oak tankard, and Kydd turned to go. Then a plaintive chord floated out, it hung – and a woman’s voice sounded above the lessening chatter. ‘Sweet Sally, an’ how her true love Billy Bowling was torn fr’m her arms an’ pressed.’ A blonde woman, standing tall and proud, continued, ‘Sally’s heart’s near broken, she can’t bear t’ be parted – so she disguises as a foremast jack ’n’ goes aboard that very night.’ Kydd moved closer: the woman resembled his lost Kitty.
‘Aboard my true love’s ship I’ll go,
And brave each blowing gale;
I’ll splice, I’ll tack, I’ll reef, I’ll row,
And haul with him the sail;
In jacket blue, and trousers too,
With him I’ll cruise afar,
There shall not be a smarter hand
Aboard a man-o’-war.’
Her voice was warm and passionate. Talk died away as she sang on. Kydd’s mind took him back to other ships, other ports – and evenings such as this with his shipmates – when he’d had not a care in his heart.
She finished, but the memories she had aroused came on him in full flood, stinging his eyes. He became aware that faces were turned towards him, conversations dying away. A woman moved protectively towards her man and the expressions became dark, resentful.
Poulden came across. ‘Sir?’ he demanded suspiciously.
These men had every right to their territory, little enough in a ship of war. And he had no right – he did not belong. ‘Er, just came t’ hear the songs,’ he said weakly. ‘Rattlin’ good singing, lads,’ he added, but it fell into a silence. ‘Please carry on,’ he said, louder.
The men looked at each other, then the seaman who had sung ‘Ben Backstay’ got to his feet and stood purposefully under the lanthorns. He muttered an aside to the violinist and clutching a tankard launched loudly into:
‘To our noble Commander
His Honour and Wealth,
May he drown and be damn’d—’
Singer and violinist stopped precisely in mid-note and looked at Kydd. Their point made, the duo continued:
‘—that refuses the Health;
Here’s to thee Billy, honest an’ true;
Thanks to the men who calls them his crew
An’ while one is drinking, the other shall fill!’
A girl sprang into the pool of light. ‘A sarabande!’ she called. But Kydd had left.
Chapter 6
‘Well, I wish you joy of your voyage, gentlemen – unhappily I have a court-martial to attend and therefore shall not be with you.’ There was no mistaking the smug satisfaction in Bampton’s tone. In the normal run of events the inbound convoy would have been met by one or two of the hard-working frigates, but this one was transporting the lieutenant-governor of New Brunswick and his family to take up his post and Tenacious had been deemed more suitable.
It seemed to Kydd that he was the only one looking forward to the sea time. The weather had been miserable these past few days, cold and blustery, and although they would only be out a day or so at most, the general consensus was that it was an ideal time to snug down in harbour until better conditions returned.
Kydd had long ago realised that he was a ‘foul-weather jack’ – one of those who revelled in the exhilaration and spectacle of stormy seas, racing clouds and the life-intensifying charge of danger. In this short voyage he knew they would probably not face a full-blown tempest but the thought of a lively experience at sea lifted his spirits.