“Watch yer back, sailor!” Doud said, pushing past Kydd. He was watching the clewgarnet rise from below, suspended on a fly block next to the mainmast as it was hauled up by the laborers on deck. Feeling like a yokel on his first trip to town, Kydd admired the skill and cool assurance of the two as they worked, thoroughly at home in this unfathomable complication of spars and cordage.
At one point when Doud and Bowyer were both out on the yard they asked him to pass the clewgarnet down to its second stoppering on the hauling line, out to the blocks. This involved the team sharing the task of passing it along, right out to the end of the yard where the clew of the furled course now was, and bringing it back again to where it was clinched to the mainyard.
Kydd’s part was not onerous, but he had to move about the top and give his full attention to the whole picture. He sensed that this was no special task, but when they finally stepped down from the shrouds to the deck at last, he was elated. Nothing could have stopped his foolish laugh and the casual swagger.
Elkins was waiting. “So you knows a bit o’ sailorin’, then, Kydd – get below, my respects t’ the boatswain, and we needs a sky hook to sway up the kelson.”
Concentrating on the message, Kydd turned to go. “Where -?”
“Forrard on the orlop, you grass-combin’ bugger. Get goin’, sharpish like, we got work to do.”
The boatswain pursed his lips. “The sky hook, eh? Well, lad, that’s going to be difficult.” His hand rasped on his dark-shadowed chin. “I gave it out, as I recollects, to Mr. Walker for to raise a mousing. If you finds Matthew Walker, you’ll find your sky hook, lad.”
Nobody seemed to know how to find Matthew Walker and even appeared to find his search entertaining. Remembering Elkins’s sharp orders, Kydd hurried on. It was Dan Phelps who finally came to the rescue.
“They’re gullin’ yer, matey – the cook, he’s yer Matthew Walker!” Gratefully Kydd accepted directions to the galley.
The cook scowled. He was a big man, seeming not to notice the absence of a lower leg, which, with the grievous black ingrained wound on the side of his face, was legacy of a bursting gun, terrible pain and a saw on the cockpit table.
“What the hell are you two a-grinnin’ at?” he snarled at his mates, who were deep inside the colossal copper vats, sanding and sniggering. He turned back to Kydd. “See ’ere, me old Jack Tar, you tell yer Mr. Elkins as how I’ve a sea pie to raise for damn near eight hunnerd men, and how does he expect me to do that without yon sky hook?”
Kydd toiled up the fore companionway, aware that the seven bells striking meant that it was a half-hour to noon, and therefore soon dinnertime. From nowhere a boatswain’s mate appeared at the head of the ladder above, blocking Kydd’s progress. He grinned evilly at Kydd before raising his silver call and emitting an appalling blast of sound. “All the haaands! Hands lay aft to witness punishment!” he bellowed at Kydd, then mock doffed his hat with its Duke William picked out in gold and red, and clattered past to the next deck.
Joining the streaming throng, Kydd found himself in the familiar area of the quarterdeck between the ship’s wheel and the mainmast. He had been jostled to the front of the assembled company so his view of the proceedings would be immediate.
The marines were formed up across the poop, but the officers were in a group before the break of the poop facing the men. A clear area existed between them.
The Master-at-Arms and his corporals flanked two seamen, one of whom Kydd recognized as one of the fighters of the previous evening. He had bloodshot eyes but carried himself watchful and erect. The other he did not recognize, a slight gray vole of a man whose darting eyes were his only concession to fear.
Kydd searched about, looking for Bowyer, but could not see him. With the oppressive tension draining his newly won reserves of confidence, he needed some other to share his disquiet. The only one he knew was next to the ship’s side, arms folded and with an impregnable air of detachment. Renzi.
Transferring his attention back to the little group near the wheel, he was in time to see Tyrell appear from the cabin spaces. The officer stumped to the center of the clear area, looking sharply about him. “Rig the gratings,” he growled.
A brace of carpenter’s mates pushed through the crowd of seamen behind Kydd, dragging two of the main hatch gratings aft. One was placed upright against the poop railings and lashed tightly. The other served as a scaffold for the victim to stand upon.
A boatswain’s mate touched his forehead to Tyrell. “Gratings rigged, sir”.
Tyrell glared around at the men and without referring to his paper snapped, “Caleb Larkin, cooper’s mate.”
The gray man shuffled forward. He blinked and looked sideways at Tyrell, but said nothing.
Tyrell nodded at the Master-at-Arms.
“Was found drunk and incapable, sir; did piss in the waist under cover of dark, sir.” The piggy eyes looked at the man without particular expression.
There was a ripple of movements, a few murmurs. The tall boatswain’s mate at the side of the gratings stroked his long red bag.
Larkin seemed resigned, and continued his odd sideways stare at Tyrell.
“An unspeakable act, you ill-looking dog! Have you anything to say?”
The man thought for a moment, then mutely shook his head.
Tyrell let the moment hang. “One week’s stoppage of grog, Master-at-Arms’ black list one month.”
Larkin’s head rose in astonishment. His shoulders twitched as if throwing off the evil threat of the lash, and dared a triumphant look forward at his friends. Astonished looks showed that his incredible escape was not lost on anyone.
The murmuring died away as Tyrell consulted his paper. “Patrick Donnelly, quarter gunner.” He looked up and waited for absolute silence before nodding crisply at the Master-at-Arms.
“Fighting when off watch, sir.”
There were louder mutters this time. The going tariff for fighting would be a spell in the bilboes or a lengthy mastheading in this cold weather. The tall boatswain’s mate would be disappointed of his prey.
“How long have you been quarter gunner, Donnelly?” Tyrell began mildly.
Unsure how to play it, Donnelly muttered something.
“Speak up, man!” Tyrell snapped.
“Two year, near enough,” Donnelly repeated. He had the unfortunate quirk of appearing surly when being questioned in public.
“Two years – a petty officer for two years, so you know well enough that a petty officer does not engage in brawling. Disrated. You’re turned before the mast and will shift your hammock tonight.”
Donnelly’s dogged look created a wave of barely concealed muttering. This was hard. The reason for the aimless flaring and fisticuffs was well known: Donnelly had a sweetheart in Portsmouth.
Tyrell watched the men. His hard face gave no quarter. “Collaby!”
His clerk hurried over with a thin black leatherbound book. Tyrell took it.
“Articles of War!” he thundered.
“Off hats!” the Master-at-Arms bellowed. In a flurry of movement the entire assembly removed their headgear – the officers’ cocked hats, the round hats of the petty officers and the amazing variety of the seamen’s head coverings, ranging from shapeless raw woolen articles to the stout traditional tarpaulin hats.
In grim stillness all stood to hear the strict law of the Service. The sea breeze plucked the hair on hundreds of bare heads.
The words were flung out savagely. “‘Article twenty-three. If any person in the Fleet shall quarrel or fight with any other person in the Fleet, or use reproachful or provoking speech or gestures’ and so on and so forth, as well you know, ‘shall suffer such punishment as the offense shall deserve, and a court-martial shall impose.’ ”
He slammed the book shut.
“On hats!”
“You shall have a court-martial, should you wish it. Have you anything to say?”