Kydd by Julian Stockwin Page B

quizzical look did not bring an explanation.
    Bowyer tilted his head to gaze up at the complex array of masts, yards, sails and rigging with something that closely resembled affection. “Now, lookee there, Tom. Any ship-rigged packet has three masts, fore, main and mizzen, and the names of the yards and sails are nearly the same on all of ’em, so you need learn only one. And the ropes an’ all — they take their names from the masts and sails they work, so they’re the same.”
    Kydd tried to adopt a nonchalant pose, holding on to a substantial-looking rope. Bowyer winced. “Be careful now, Tom — we scratches a backstay to get a wind, and we don’t want ter tempt fate, now, do we?” He moved on quickly. “And we rate our ships depending on ’ow many guns we ’ave. This one ’as three decks of guns, the most of any, near enough, so we’re the biggest, a line-of-battle ship.” The guns on the fo’c’sle glistened blackly with damp. “We’ve got near one hunnerd o’ thegreat guns, the biggest down low, where we lives. We can take on anything afloat, me lad. You pity the poor bastard that finds ’imself lookin’ down the eyes o’ these beauties.”
    The chill wind fluttered Kydd’s jacket and made him shudder. By mutual consent they passed down the ladder to the deck below. It was mainly enclosed, but open to the sky for a distance between foremast and mainmast, here crossed by thick skid beams on which the ship’s boats were stowed.
    They passed the open area to go aft. The big main hatches were here below it, a passage deep into the bowels of the vessel, and garlanded with cannon balls like lethal strands of black pearls. Past the imposing bulk of the mainmast was a final ladderway down, but across the whole width of the deck aft, their way was now barred by a darkly polished bulkhead with doors each side.
    “There’s where the Admiral lives, Tom — an’ like a prince!” Bowyer moved closer and spoke reverently. “And that’s where they plan out the battles ’n’ such.” His mouth twitched. “’Twas also the place where Jemmy Boyes and his mates went afore a court-martial. Mutiny, they called it, although it were really them only talkin’ wry — the year ’eighty-seven that was.” He looked forward, his mouth compressed to a hard line. “It were our own fore yardarm where they was turned off, God save ’em.”
    For a moment he stood, then went over to the ladder and looked down. “We have two more decks of guns below us, ’n’ then it’s the water-line.”
    “And where were we at the purser’s?”
    “Well, I didn’t say we had no more decks under the waterline,” Bowyer said. “In fact, me old gullion, we have the orlop under the lower gundeck, and that was where you was before.”
    He cracked his knuckles. “Interestin’ place, the orlop. Right forrard you get the boatswain and Chips. They both have their cabin and their stores. But turn round and right aft you get the sawbones, the purser and
their
stores — and not forgettin’ the midshipmen’s berth.”
    He looked down, as though the deck were transparent. “And all the middle bit is where the anchor cables are laid out in tiers, and where yer go down inside the gun magazines. Lots o’ dark, rummy places about, down in the orlop. Wouldn’t advise rovin’ about down there withoutyer’ve got a friend.” He swung round with a grin. “And then all that’s left below is the hold. But I guess yer know all about that — it’s where the pressed men go afore we sails. It’s where all the water and vittles are stowed, and when we clears for action all the gear gets sent down there.” Bowyer punched him on the shoulder. “So now you knows all the decks, we’ll go visit ’em!”
    There was no hanging back, and for the remainder of the watch Kydd found himself plunging after Bowyer — down ladders, along rows of huge guns, on gratings out above the sea and, in fact, to places it was impossible to believe might