Quarterdeck by Julian Stockwin

easy affability brought approving grunts from around the table. He raised his glass in Kydd’s direction. “Might I bring forward my particular friend Thomas Kydd, whom you see before you as junior aboard, but whose shining parts his modesty forbids him to mention. His actions in thwarting a fearful case of barratry while still a child of the sea is well remarked, and I owe my continued existence to his acting forcefully in a curious circumstance on an island in the Great South Sea. He it is who conned the longboat in the Caribbean that preserved Lord Stanhope, and in all, gentlemen, we must conclude that Mr Kydd be truly accounted a favoured son of Neptune!”
    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!”
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Julian Stockwin
    There was warmth in the easy laughter that followed the old saw. Kydd had no idea that there was such a fraternity in the offi -
    cers 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 la-conically 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 fi lled 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 fi nished his soup. “Sadly, we shan’t see their like again, I fear, before we next make port.”
    Behind the chair of each offi cer 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 Adams waited until he had withdrawn to see to Kydd’s glass.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 blacka-moor you have there, come down in the world since he was valet de chambre to Codrington, who, you might recollect, died of an apo plexy 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 fi rst, he had his doubts that Tysoe would hold his own. But something

Quarterdeck
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    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 offi cers. 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 fi nd 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