Quarterdeck by Julian Stockwin Page B

the poop-deck. Most of his division, the able seamen, landmen and idlers, would still be below for these fi rst proceedings. “Our petty offi cers, Mr Lawes?”
    “Sir.”
    These men were the hard centre of his division, the ones in local charge of the seamen at masts, yards and guns. They would 56

Julian Stockwin
    also be at his right hand when his division was tasked for special duty, whether the boarding of a prize or the cutting out of an enemy—and they would be looking directly to him for their lead.
    “This is Mr Rawson, signal midshipman.” It was the previous day’s coxswain of the ship’s boat, Kydd remembered.
    “And Mr Chamberlain, midshipman.” He was absurdly youthful, thought Kydd, observing his curls and slight build, yet he knew this boy had a status and duties that placed him well above the hardiest able seaman.
    “Samuel Laffi
    n, bo’sun’s mate
    .
    .
    .” Dark-featured and
    oddly neat in his appearance, on his hat he wore a ribbon with
    “Tenacious” in gold lettering.
    “Henry Soulter, quartermaster.” Kydd recognised a natural deep-sea mariner, and warmed to his softly spoken ways.
    And there were others, whom he knew he should remember—
    petty offi cers of the fi ghting tops, quarter gunners, petty offi cer of the afterguard—and rarer birds, such as captain of the hold, yeoman of the powder room and the carpenter’s mates. In all, he would have a fair proportioning of the fi ve hundred-odd of Tenacious ’s company, such that most of the skills of a man-o’-war would be at hand if Mr Kydd’s division was called away as a unit.
    Kydd stepped forward and braced himself to address them: they would be expecting some words to set the tone. “Ye’ll fi nd that I play fair, but I expect the same from you all. You know I come fr’m before the mast, that’s no secret, but chalk this in y’r log—I know the tricks, an’ if I see any of ’em, I’ll be down on ye like thunder.
    “I like a taut ship. If y’ see an Irish pennant, send a hand t’
    secure it. If the job’s not fi nished b’ end of watch, stay until it’s done. And look after y’r men! If I see you warm ’n’ dry on watch while a man has a wet shirt, I’ll have ye exchange with him.”

Quarterdeck
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    He felt their eyes on him, and he knew what they were thinking: how would all this translate to action, or was it mere words?
    Would he leave it to them, the senior hands, to deal with things on the spot so long as the objective was achieved, to administer justice in the time-honoured ways of the sea? In effect, would their status be properly acknowledged?
    “Y’ have your lists?” Each petty offi cer would have the watch and station details of every man he was responsible for, and Lawes would have a master list. After today there would be no excuse for any seaman not to know where he should be in every circumstance foreseeable by experience and necessity.
    “Mr Lawes, I shall inspect my division in one bell.”
    The territory allotted for mustering Mr Kydd’s division was the after end of the main deck. His men assembled in order, three rows on each side facing inboard, their ditty bags of clothing at their feet. There was controlled bedlam as watch and stations were explained, noted and learned, friendships discovered between those of like watch and part-of-ship, and new-rated petty offi cers got to grips with their duties.
    Kydd paced quietly down the middle. He could leave it to Lawes to muster the men and report when ready while he eyed them surreptitiously.
    A Royal Navy warship was divided into as many divisions as there were offi cers. In this way each man could claim the ear of his own offi cer for complaint, requests and someone to speak for him at a court-martial. It was a humane custom of the Navy, but it required that the offi cer was familiar with his men.
    But the men had other allegiances. Apart from the specialist artisans, the idlers, the crew was divided into two watches for routine