companionway.
Tysoe had taken possession of the long, oddly shaped article for him while he had been aboard Princess Royal and it was still in its brown-paper wrapping. Kydd opened it carefully, hefting the precious weight and feeling like a child with a long-awaited gift. The black gleam of oiled leather, then the martial gilding of the top of the scabbard—and suddenly it was in his hands, the weapon that would probably be by his side for the rest of his sea life.
He clicked open the langets securing the sword and eased up the blade far enough to see engraved just below the hilt, less than an inch in size, as neat a pair of Cornish choughs as he could have wished for.
With a lethal slither, he withdrew the sword from its scabbard; the half-length bluing of the blade was as handsome as he had remembered. He came to point, the action seeming so natural, the sword in flawless balance. Kydd drew it close in admiration. Mesmerised by the steely shimmer, he flourished it slowly, feeling its grace and accuracy, the sharkskin grips sure and true.
He stood to lose his life if enemy blood caused it to slip from his hand.
Reluctantly he slid the blade back into the scabbard. It was unbelievable that he could be the owner of such a fine weapon.
He gathered up the appurtenances: the belt with its frog, a matching baldric—a broad strap for shoulder carriage of the sword complete with a bold gilded fouled anchor device—and a beautifully worked sword knot. Eyeing the tassels doubtfully, Kydd resolved to replace it in combat with a securely spliced
Tenacious
55
manila lanyard. He hung the sword by its rings, left the rest on his desk for Tysoe to stow and returned on deck as nonchalantly as he could.
The favourable south-westerly firmed but backed more to the east; stuns’ls to leeward were struck as they were backwinded by their topsails. The master frowned at the sight of Vanguard ’s lee stuns’ls still abroad. “Not as I should say, but for a raw captain Berry hangs on t’ his canvas a mort long,” he muttered.
An hour later, the winds were further towards the south-east and the remaining stuns’ls were taken in. “Hands to quarters!”
Houghton snapped. Under plain sail there was no need to worry over delicate sail set and he would have his way with gun practice. “Mr Kydd, you will take post as second of the gundeck for now, if you please.”
Kydd had been expecting this. In battle, in a hard-fought slug-ging match, a signal lieutenant might well find himself employed at the guns, replacing a killed or wounded gundeck officer—in fact, that very instance had provided his own elevation to the quarterdeck.
The long twenty-fours of Tenacious were powerful weapons but Kydd had cut his teeth as a young man on the thirty-two-pounders of Duke William; any others were lesser beasts.
The crews mustered on the gundeck, throwing off muzzle lashings, taking down the rammers, sheepskin staves and other implements. The bark of gun captains was loud in the close air as they goaded men to their stations. It seemed impossibly crowded but there was a pattern in the seething mass and Kydd waited on the centreline.
Adams was in charge of the forward half of the gundeck standing, like Kydd, well clear of the throng. He caught Kydd’s eye, removed his hat and performed an exaggerated bow. Kydd grinned 56
Julian Stockwin
and returned the gesture, then turned back to his section.
Dobbie was gun captain but also quarter gunner, responsible for the after four guns on the larboard side. His squat, powerful build was perfectly suited to hard work in the low decked spaces. Kydd watched as Dobbie bullied crews into place: two to throw off the cross seizings and bight the fall of each side tackle, others hauling the training tackle to the rear of the gun and standing braced to take in the sudden slack when the gun
“fired,” the remainder ready to train the guns round by brute force with handspikes under the carriage
Tysoe had taken possession of the long, oddly shaped article for him while he had been aboard Princess Royal and it was still in its brown-paper wrapping. Kydd opened it carefully, hefting the precious weight and feeling like a child with a long-awaited gift. The black gleam of oiled leather, then the martial gilding of the top of the scabbard—and suddenly it was in his hands, the weapon that would probably be by his side for the rest of his sea life.
He clicked open the langets securing the sword and eased up the blade far enough to see engraved just below the hilt, less than an inch in size, as neat a pair of Cornish choughs as he could have wished for.
With a lethal slither, he withdrew the sword from its scabbard; the half-length bluing of the blade was as handsome as he had remembered. He came to point, the action seeming so natural, the sword in flawless balance. Kydd drew it close in admiration. Mesmerised by the steely shimmer, he flourished it slowly, feeling its grace and accuracy, the sharkskin grips sure and true.
He stood to lose his life if enemy blood caused it to slip from his hand.
Reluctantly he slid the blade back into the scabbard. It was unbelievable that he could be the owner of such a fine weapon.
He gathered up the appurtenances: the belt with its frog, a matching baldric—a broad strap for shoulder carriage of the sword complete with a bold gilded fouled anchor device—and a beautifully worked sword knot. Eyeing the tassels doubtfully, Kydd resolved to replace it in combat with a securely spliced
Tenacious
55
manila lanyard. He hung the sword by its rings, left the rest on his desk for Tysoe to stow and returned on deck as nonchalantly as he could.
The favourable south-westerly firmed but backed more to the east; stuns’ls to leeward were struck as they were backwinded by their topsails. The master frowned at the sight of Vanguard ’s lee stuns’ls still abroad. “Not as I should say, but for a raw captain Berry hangs on t’ his canvas a mort long,” he muttered.
An hour later, the winds were further towards the south-east and the remaining stuns’ls were taken in. “Hands to quarters!”
Houghton snapped. Under plain sail there was no need to worry over delicate sail set and he would have his way with gun practice. “Mr Kydd, you will take post as second of the gundeck for now, if you please.”
Kydd had been expecting this. In battle, in a hard-fought slug-ging match, a signal lieutenant might well find himself employed at the guns, replacing a killed or wounded gundeck officer—in fact, that very instance had provided his own elevation to the quarterdeck.
The long twenty-fours of Tenacious were powerful weapons but Kydd had cut his teeth as a young man on the thirty-two-pounders of Duke William; any others were lesser beasts.
The crews mustered on the gundeck, throwing off muzzle lashings, taking down the rammers, sheepskin staves and other implements. The bark of gun captains was loud in the close air as they goaded men to their stations. It seemed impossibly crowded but there was a pattern in the seething mass and Kydd waited on the centreline.
Adams was in charge of the forward half of the gundeck standing, like Kydd, well clear of the throng. He caught Kydd’s eye, removed his hat and performed an exaggerated bow. Kydd grinned 56
Julian Stockwin
and returned the gesture, then turned back to his section.
Dobbie was gun captain but also quarter gunner, responsible for the after four guns on the larboard side. His squat, powerful build was perfectly suited to hard work in the low decked spaces. Kydd watched as Dobbie bullied crews into place: two to throw off the cross seizings and bight the fall of each side tackle, others hauling the training tackle to the rear of the gun and standing braced to take in the sudden slack when the gun
“fired,” the remainder ready to train the guns round by brute force with handspikes under the carriage
Similar Books
