Eight bells clanged forward. It was the first watch, and in accordance with practice, the ship went to evening quarters. Mess-decks were transformed as ditty bags were taken down, benches stowed below, mess-traps placed in racks and the hinged table removed. Once again the broad space reverted to its true purpose—a gun-deck with martial rows of heavy cannons.
At the guns, the fighting tops and in the waist of the ship, men stood ready. It was a time to muster them, to ensure they knew their place in combat intimately, and also it was an opportunity for the seamen to learn about those in authority over them. But this did not concern Kydd, who maintained his watch from on high over them all.
Quarters over, the men were released. Hammocks were piped down from their stowage in the nettings around the bulwarks and slung below. In the same hour the space passed from a dining room to a ship of war and then a dormitory. The ship changed from a busy working place to a darkened domain of slumber.
It was a clear night with the wind steady on the beam. Kydd stepped inside the cabin spaces to the lobby, where a small table bore a chart. It was now his duty to think of the bigger picture. A seaman before the mast simply accepted that a course was set to a compass heading. Beyond that, it was of no interest to someone who could have no say in his destiny, but who at the same time did not have to worry about it.
Kydd lowered the dim lanthorn so its soft golden light was enough to see their pencilled course pricked out. They were heading mainly south with the Canary current to avoid the strong trade westerlies, and to pick up later the countervailing seasonal north-easterlies in a swing across the width of the ocean.
Kydd stepped out on deck again. He had been in countless night watches and been comforted by the nocturnal sounds: the slaps and dings of ropes against masts, sails occasionally cracking with a high-spirited flourish, the never-ceasing spreading groan and creak of timbers, the ghost-like susurrus of wind in the lines from aloft—all had been a soothing backdrop before. Now its character had changed. Any number of hazards might lie in wait to challenge his still untutored judgement, a started strake even now spurting black water into the depths of the hold, a wrung topgallant mast tumbling to sudden ruin, a sleepy merchant ship yawing across their bows . . .
"Lawes, prove the lookouts!" It sounded more urgent than he meant.
In response to his mate-of-the-watch's hail came answering cries of "Aye aye!" from around the deck.
Kydd moved along the weather gangway, thumping on ropes. If they gave a satisfying hard thrum they were well taut, but a dead feel under his fist meant a job for the watch on deck. He returned by the lee gangway, looking up at the pale expanse of sail. They drew well, but there was no compelling need for speed, locked in as they were to the speed of the convoy. He had no wish to be known as a "jib and staysail jack," always trimming yards and canvas to the annoyance of the night watch.
Back on the quarterdeck, the ship's easy motion was reassuring, the stolid presence of the helmsman and quartermaster companionable, and his tense wariness subsided.
The master-at-arms came aft from the main hatchway with a midshipman and corporal. "All's well, sir, an' lights out below," he reported.
"Very good. Carry on, please," Kydd said, echoing the words of the countless officers-of-the-watch he had known. The master-at-arms touched his hat, leaving them to their solitude.
The accustomed tranquillity of a night watch began to settle-bringing a disengagement of mind from body, a pleasant feeling of consciousness being borne timelessly to reverie and memories.
Kydd pulled himself together. This was not the way an officer-of-the-watch should be, with all his responsibility. He turned and paced firmly to the mainmast and back, glaring about.
The night wore on. It was easy sailing: he could hear the monotone of one of the watch on deck forward spinning a yarn. There was a falsetto hoot and sudden laughter, but for him there would be no more companionable yarns in the anonymous darkness.
He spun on his heel and paced slowly back towards the binnacle, catching the flash of eyes in the dimness nearby as the quartermaster weighed the chances of a bored officer-of-the-watch picking fault with his helmsman. Reaching the binnacle Kydd glanced inside to the soft gold of the compass light. Their course was true. All along the decks, lines bowsed taut. What could go wrong?
His imagination replied with a multitude of possible emergencies. He forced them away and tried to remain calm, pacing slowly to one side of the deck. Low talk began around the wheel. It stopped when he approached again. Could they be discussing him? Years of his own time at the wheel told him that they were —
and anything else that might pass the hours of a night watch.
Oddly comforted, he made play of going to the ship's side and inspecting the wake as if he was expecting something, but his senses suddenly pricked to full alertness—there were sounds that did not fit. He spun round. An indistinct group of men lurched into view from the main hatchway. Even in the semi-darkness he could see that two were supporting a third, slumped between them. Another followed behind.
He recognised the voice of the boatswain but not those of the other men, who were moaning and arguing. Kydd hurried to the light of the binnacle. "Yes, Mr Pearce?" he snapped at the boatswain.
The moaning man was lowered to the deck in a sprawl. "Fetch the corporal with a night-lanthorn," Kydd snapped, "and ask the doctor to—"
"Sir," Pearce began heavily, "Ord'nary Seaman Lamb, sir, taken in drink in th' orlop."
"What's this, y' useless skulker? Think t' swill out o' sight, do you?" Kydd spat venomously.
The violence of his anger shocked him and he knew he had overreacted. He pulled himself together. "What's y'r division?"
"L'tenant Adams, sir," Lamb said thickly, touching his forelock in fear.
"Said it's his birthday, sir."
The white face of the offender stared up at Kydd from the deck. Lamb struggled to stand but fell back.
Kydd could easily picture what had happened. With typical generosity his messmates had plied him with illicitly hoarded rum in celebration. He had staggered down to the orlop to sleep it off, then had the misfortune to encounter the boatswain on his rounds.
Kydd's sympathies swung to the lad. Life on the lower deck in the cold north Atlantic was not pleasant and seamen looked for any kind of release—generally rum.
But there was no real escape. A ship of war that might in minutes find itself yardarm to yardarm with an enemy was no place for a drunken hand at the guns. Kydd's duty was plain. "Sleeps it off in irons, t' front the captain in the forenoon." Houghton would have no mercy and tomorrow there would be pain and suffering at the gangway.
Kydd turned his back and paced away. He had no stomach for any scenes of pitiful begging but there were only muffled gasps and grunting as the young sailor was hauled away.
"Bring him forward." Houghton stood rigid, his lips clamped to a thin line, his hands behind his back as Lamb was brought before the lectern.
"Take orf that hat!" growled the master-at-arms. The youth's thatch of hair ruffled in the wind that buffeted down over the half-deck. His open face was set and pale, but he carried himself with dignity.
On one side of the captain Kydd attended for the prosecution, on the other was Adams. "Well?" snapped the captain, turning to Kydd.
"Sir, Ordinary Seaman Lamb. Last night at six bells o' the first watch the boatswain haled this man before me under suspicion o' drink." Caught by the boatswain, prostrate with drink before the officer-of-the-watch, there was not the slightest chance of denial. But the grim ritual of the trial must be completed.
"And was he?"
Kydd's answer would be the boy's condemnation. "He—he was incapable." He had had as much chance of avoiding those words as Lamb had of escaping the lash.
"I see. Mr Adams?"
"Sir. This lad is young. It was his birthday and his shipmates plied him with grog in celebration but, sir, in his youth and inexperience he was unable to resist their cajolery. It's nothing but youth and warm spirits—"