Quarterdeck by Julian Stockwin Page A

mean.”
    “Damn it all!” Bryant exploded, glaring at Bampton. “We were promised fi ggy duff—where the devil is it?”
    It was a pearly calm winter’s day when Kydd appeared for duty on the deck of the man-o’-war, a King’s offi cer. After their pressed men had been claimed and come aboard, the ship’s company would be mustered by open list into divisions and Kydd would see his men for the fi rst time.
    A hoy from the receiving ship came alongside in a fl urry of fl apping canvas and shouted orders. Kydd continued to pace the quarterdeck, the arrival of pressed men not his concern. Out of sight, in the waist below, the fi rst lieutenant would be setting up to receive them, rating the seamen by their skills and consigning the rest—landmen—to the drudgery of brute labour.
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Julian Stockwin
    Kydd felt contentment at the thought that within a week or so this deck would be alive and heeling to the stern winds of the open ocean.
    Renzi fell into step beside him.
    “Nicholas! How did y’ sleep?” Kydd’s own experience had not been of the best. Alone in the dark, he had tried to keep the thoughts that surged through him under control. The cot, a square-sided canvas frame suspended from the deckhead, was comfortable, but he had not realised that bedding was his own responsibility, and were it not for Tysoe’s silent intercession, he would have gone without.
    “Well, it must certainly be admitted, our elevation to society in this watery world has its distinct attractions.” Renzi wore an indulgent smile, which triggered a jet of frustration in Kydd.
    After his own experiences, it was galling to see Renzi take to his new life so easily.
    “It is agreeable, perhaps, but today we get th’ measure of our men,” he said impatiently. Adams was on the opposite side of the deck, deep in conversation with a master’s mate, and also appeared anxious to be started.
    “Mr Kydd?”
    He turned to see a dignifi ed older man in plain uniform. The man touched his hat. “Hambly, sir, sailing master.”
    “Good morning, Mr Hambly,” Kydd replied. A full master, Royal Navy, paying his respects, the highest professional being in Kydd’s universe before. The man’s steady look had a quality of appraisal, cool judgement.
    “Thought I’d make y’r acquaintance, sir.” Before Kydd could speak, he continued, “Mr Jarman is m’ friend.”
    Kydd remembered the master of the topsail cutter Seafl ower, who had patiently taught him the elements of navigation and whose octant he now used, pressed on him after his famed open-boat voyage.

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    “A fi ne man, Mr Hambly,” Kydd said sincerely. “I owe him much.”
    The master smiled slowly, touched his hat to Kydd, then Renzi, and left.
    A double strike on the bell sounded forward: this was the time for the offi cers to repair to the great cabin where the shape of things to come would now become apparent.
    “Gentlemen, be seated.” The captain remained standing, staring out of the stern windows. “I won’t keep you long,” he said.
    “It is my intention to conclude the fi tting of this vessel for sea as soon as possible. I desire that today you shall muster the people by open list, and prove your divisions. The fi rst lieutenant has assured me he has now a complete watch and station bill.”
    Bryant nodded emphatically, then glanced around at the offi -
    cers meaningfully. There had been frantic work by his writer and clerks the previous night.
    Houghton continued sternly, “He wishes that this shall be advised to all hands—with a view to shifting to sea routine within a small space of days. The quarters bill will be posted this evening, I am assured.” He withdrew a silver watch. “Shall we say, divisions at fi ve bells?”
    “Mr Lawes?” Kydd addressed the only master’s mate among the group of about twenty men.
    “Aye, sir.”
    “Pleased t’ see you,” Kydd said, touching his own hat at Lawes’s salute. He turned to survey the men drawn up on