There was no rudder for this work: Dobbie would handle the steering oar.
“Shove off,” growled Dobbie, to the dark figure of the bowman standing right forward. Obediently the boat-hook was wielded and they moved out into the calm, black waters, but it was only to ease down to the mizzen chains, where the kedge anchor was stowed.
“If y’ pleases, sir,” said Dobbie. Holding a capstan bar in each hand he motioned towards the midshipman’s unfortunate choice of seating in the centre of the boat.
“O’ course. Shift out of it, Mr Bowden.”
The bars were placed fore and aft over the stroke thwart and the transom, and the kedge anchor swayed down and was lashed into place, its long shank easily spanning the width of the boat with flukes one side and stock the other. The launch squatted down in the water with the weight.
“Out oars!” Movement was heavy and slow as they made their way along the dark mass of the ship to her bow. Within her 50
Julian Stockwin
bulk there would be hundreds of men taking their place at the capstans—with hawsers out to two boats, both the main and fore jeer capstans would be manned by every soul that could be found to keep up momentum.
Their hawser was paid out to them and Kydd himself doubled it back through the anchor ring, holding it while Dobbie passed the seizing. He knew they were under eye from Houghton on the fo’c’sle, and he would be merciless to any who delayed their departure. Then began the slow row out: a deep-sea lead line streamed out with them to tell them when to let the anchor go.
Heavy and unresponsive, the boat was a hog to pull and the night was warm and close. There was none of the usual muttering and smothered laughter that showed the men in spirits: this was going to be a trial of strength and nerve.
“Holy Jesus!” bawled Dobbie. “Are we goin’ t’ let Orion show us th’ way out o’ harbour? Let’s see some sweat, then!”
With the weight of iron and endless curve of hawser there was no way that redoubled effort would show in increased speed, a dispiriting thing for men doing their best. But if they flagged, the heavy boat would rapidly slow.
In the moonless night it was difficult to make out expressions, but Kydd could see the unmoving, dogged, downward set of their heads. He glanced to his side at Bowden, who was staring at the straining men, pale-faced.
In the silence, ragged panting and the synchronised clunk and slither of oars in thole pins was loud in the night air. Kydd looked astern; the black mass of the ship seemed just as close and he determinedly faced forward. Dobbie caught the movement and turned on his men: “God rot it, but I’ll sweat the salt fr’m yer bones—lay inter it, y’ scowbunkin’ lubbers! Y’r worse’n a lot o’
Dublin durrynackers!”
Kydd knew what they must be enduring—muscles across the shoulders and forearms burning with pain, turning hands on the
Tenacious
51
looms of the oar to claws, but if they were to be out in the cool breezes to seaward before dawn . . .
A low groan came from the anonymous dimness forward.
Kydd frowned: if this was an expression of discontent, he would take the steering oar himself and send Dobbie there. He knew that the hard petty officer kept a rope’s end handy and he would have no compunction about letting him loose.
Suddenly there was a disturbance—a tangle of arms and cries of alarm. “Oars!” Kydd roared. “Dobbie, get forrard an’ see what it is.” They had lost momentum.
Dobbie ran down the centreline on the thwarts. Kydd heard grunts and felt the boat sway. “It’s Boyd, sir—bin an’ taken poorly. I’ve got ’is oar!” Dobbie shouted hoarsely.
“Give way,” Kydd ordered, still at the steering oar. The thunk of oars began immediately; the men knew only too well how hard it was to begin again from a standing start. He blessed his luck at having Dobbie but noticed Bowden’s hands clutching the gunwale. They twitched convulsively.
At last
“Shove off,” growled Dobbie, to the dark figure of the bowman standing right forward. Obediently the boat-hook was wielded and they moved out into the calm, black waters, but it was only to ease down to the mizzen chains, where the kedge anchor was stowed.
“If y’ pleases, sir,” said Dobbie. Holding a capstan bar in each hand he motioned towards the midshipman’s unfortunate choice of seating in the centre of the boat.
“O’ course. Shift out of it, Mr Bowden.”
The bars were placed fore and aft over the stroke thwart and the transom, and the kedge anchor swayed down and was lashed into place, its long shank easily spanning the width of the boat with flukes one side and stock the other. The launch squatted down in the water with the weight.
“Out oars!” Movement was heavy and slow as they made their way along the dark mass of the ship to her bow. Within her 50
Julian Stockwin
bulk there would be hundreds of men taking their place at the capstans—with hawsers out to two boats, both the main and fore jeer capstans would be manned by every soul that could be found to keep up momentum.
Their hawser was paid out to them and Kydd himself doubled it back through the anchor ring, holding it while Dobbie passed the seizing. He knew they were under eye from Houghton on the fo’c’sle, and he would be merciless to any who delayed their departure. Then began the slow row out: a deep-sea lead line streamed out with them to tell them when to let the anchor go.
Heavy and unresponsive, the boat was a hog to pull and the night was warm and close. There was none of the usual muttering and smothered laughter that showed the men in spirits: this was going to be a trial of strength and nerve.
“Holy Jesus!” bawled Dobbie. “Are we goin’ t’ let Orion show us th’ way out o’ harbour? Let’s see some sweat, then!”
With the weight of iron and endless curve of hawser there was no way that redoubled effort would show in increased speed, a dispiriting thing for men doing their best. But if they flagged, the heavy boat would rapidly slow.
In the moonless night it was difficult to make out expressions, but Kydd could see the unmoving, dogged, downward set of their heads. He glanced to his side at Bowden, who was staring at the straining men, pale-faced.
In the silence, ragged panting and the synchronised clunk and slither of oars in thole pins was loud in the night air. Kydd looked astern; the black mass of the ship seemed just as close and he determinedly faced forward. Dobbie caught the movement and turned on his men: “God rot it, but I’ll sweat the salt fr’m yer bones—lay inter it, y’ scowbunkin’ lubbers! Y’r worse’n a lot o’
Dublin durrynackers!”
Kydd knew what they must be enduring—muscles across the shoulders and forearms burning with pain, turning hands on the
Tenacious
51
looms of the oar to claws, but if they were to be out in the cool breezes to seaward before dawn . . .
A low groan came from the anonymous dimness forward.
Kydd frowned: if this was an expression of discontent, he would take the steering oar himself and send Dobbie there. He knew that the hard petty officer kept a rope’s end handy and he would have no compunction about letting him loose.
Suddenly there was a disturbance—a tangle of arms and cries of alarm. “Oars!” Kydd roared. “Dobbie, get forrard an’ see what it is.” They had lost momentum.
Dobbie ran down the centreline on the thwarts. Kydd heard grunts and felt the boat sway. “It’s Boyd, sir—bin an’ taken poorly. I’ve got ’is oar!” Dobbie shouted hoarsely.
“Give way,” Kydd ordered, still at the steering oar. The thunk of oars began immediately; the men knew only too well how hard it was to begin again from a standing start. He blessed his luck at having Dobbie but noticed Bowden’s hands clutching the gunwale. They twitched convulsively.
At last
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