Every man had an entry in the muster book that specified his rate and entitlements and there was a mess number that told at which of the snug tables of six friends he could be found at mealtimes. A hammock mark was the man's indication where his hammock should be slung and all was keyed together in a careful and consistent structure.
But it was only that—a structure: the quality and balance of the men comprising it would determine its success. Kydd inspected the paper lists: unknown names, numbers, duties. Would it hang together?
"Mr Peck will assist ye in drawing up y'r watch an' station bill. We leave the quarter bill for later." The fighting stations in it would be relatively straightforward to bring to organisation.
"May I know when we shall have your orders, sir?"
Dacres was entitled to ask for written Captain's Orders, but they would have to wait. "Later. How are th' people settling in?"
"In fine—fractious. They seem to have no idea of the difficulties we are under at this time, sir, and will persist in coming to me with their petty vexations. Daniel Hawkins had the effrontery to claim allowance against local victuals used in place of the scale of salted provisions, the rogue."
A seaman's horizons were necessarily limited: if he saw that the safe, secure round of his daily routines was in disarray it was fundamentally unsettling. Sea routine would see to that, but Kydd knew that here an unwritten bargain was at risk: that of an officer's duty to provide for his men in return for their loyalty. Again, the comfort of settled routine at sea would take care of this. Hawkins was trying an old trick; there would be many more such.
Dacres was keeping his distance from the men, not understanding them, distrustful. Kydd did not let this dampen his spirits. "But on th' whole a splendid day," he said to his first lieutenant. "Do ye care to join me f'r dinner, sir?"
It was the first time Kydd had entertained; his great cabin was not yet to his satisfaction because he had had no time ashore and diminishing means to pay for the necessary adornments that would give it individuality. As a result it now possessed a Spartan plainness.
He felt Tysoe's unspoken disapproval as he ladled the soup from a white china mess-kid acting as a tureen into plain wardroom dishes, and noticed his steward's raised eyebrows at the sailcloth table runner, but he did not care. Here he was king and owed excuses to no one.
Dacres sat opposite, his face a study in composure. He said nothing after the preliminary pleasantries; it was the custom of the service never to address the captain directly, politely waiting until spoken to.
"The ship all ahoo like this," Kydd grunted, "how we shall get t' sea this age I can't conceive."
"Order and tranquillity will be pleasant enough when they come," Dacres agreed carefully, and finished his soup.
It was quite a different experience from the warm conviviality of the wardroom that Kydd had been used to, the to and fro of opinions, prejudices, desires. "Do ye come from a seafaring family, Mr Dacres?" he asked.
"That I do, sir," he replied, loosening. "You may have heard of my uncle, Admiral Peyton, now in the Downs, and perhaps Captain Edward Duncan who has hopes of the position of deputy controller at the Admiralty. We pride ourselves that we have provided sea officers for England since the first Charles and . . ." He tailed off stiffly at Kydd's polite boredom.
"Tell me of y'r sea service, Mr Dacres."
"Well, sir, I entered Pompee as a youngster in 1793—we took her at Toulon, if you recall—and served in the Channel Fleet until 'ninety-five."
"So you were at th' Glorious First o' June?"
"To my great regret, no. We were in for a repair. I—I did suffer indignity at the mutiny of 'ninety-seven. Were you drawn into that evil affair at all, sir?"
Kydd had been under discipline before the mast, accused of treason after the Nore Mutiny. He had joined the insurrection in good faith, then been carried along by events that had overwhelmed them all. But for mysterious appeals at the highest level, he should have shared his comrades' fate. He drew a breath. "It was a bad occasion f'r us all. Have ye service in the Mediterranean?"
"Not until my commission into Minotaur, Captain Louis, a year ago." Minotaur was a 74, part of Admiral Keith's fleet and on blockade duty.
"So all big-ship service. How do you feel about Teazer ?" It had probably been a shock to experience the tight confines of a small vesseclass="underline" the closeness of the men, the lack of privacy and the sheer diminutiveness of everything aboard.
Dacres paused. "Small, I grant you, but I look to keen service in her. I have heard your own service has been rather eventful?" he said, with a touch of defiance.
"I was fortunate enough t' be at both Camperdown and the Nile," Kydd said, "and a quiet time in th' North American station." Dacres had never smelt gun-smoke in battle and would probably learn more in Teazer over a few months than from years in a ship-of-the-line. He changed the subject. "How are our Maltese hands taking t' our ways, do ye think? I have m' hopes of 'em—they look prime sailormen, seem to find 'emselves at home."
"I have my concerns that they may not understand orders in stress of weather, sir. Do you not think—"
"Seamen that're well led will never let ye down, Mr Dacres. They'll catch on soon enough. We're to be working closely t'gether in the future an' you'll find—"
A knock on the door and a muffled "Captain, sir," from outside interrupted him. It was the midshipman of the watch. "Mr Purchet's compliments and he'd like to see Mr Dacres on deck when convenient."
Kydd rose. "I won't keep ye, Mr Dacres. I've no doubt we'll have another opportunity to dine together presently." He took his seat again: the man was so utterly different, in almost every way, so at variance with his own experiences. Nevertheless it was vital he got a measure of him. As with the rest of Teazer 's company, time would tell.
"God rot it, what're you about, Mr Bowden?" roared the boatswain, stumping his way forward. The fore yard lay at a grotesque angle, and before he could reach the scene there was a savage tearing and twanging as the fore topsail split from bottom to top. The big spar dropped jerkily to the caps of the foremast. Beneath, men scattered hastily. Purchet stood stock still, gobbling with rage. Dacres hurried up from the mainmast; he and Bowden looked back aft to Kydd, their faces pale.
Kydd had been watching the dry-exercises of the sail gear and stepped forward quickly. "Set y'r clew garnets taut—haul in on y'r topsail clewline. Get that larb'd fore course tack 'n' sheet right in!" he bawled. This would hold the yard up while a jury lift was rigged. For some reason the lower yard lift on one side, taking most of the weight of the heavy spar, had given way and the inevitable had happened. The only saving grace was that there were no men on the yardarm and they were still safely at anchor. Possibly the cordage had rotted in the storehouse. Incidents like this might happen again; the sooner faults were bowled out the better. "Mr Purchet!" he ordered. "See what it is an' report t' me."
Kydd was afire with eagerness to see Teazer at sea, cutting a feather in that deep blue expanse and off to the glories that would assuredly be hers. But he could not risk it with an untried ship and crew. He jammed his hands into his pockets and paced up and down.
By early afternoon they had succeeded in loosing and furling sail on both masts without incident; each yard had been braced up sharp on each tack, halliards and slablines, martnets and leechlines, all had been hauled and veered, run through their various operating ranges.