Kydd warned off a duty midshipman to desire the surgeon to hold himself in readiness, the purser to his slops and the boatswain to provide a holding crew. It was a well-worn routine: the need for men in any man-o'-war was crucial. Even if the ship was in first-class shape, battle-ready and stored, it was all a waste without men to work her. Kydd had no misgivings about what had to be done to achieve this.
"A King's Yard boat, sir," Rawson reported. The dockyard launch made its way out to them and, as it neared, Kydd leaned over the side to see what was being brought. Looking up at him were a scatter of winter-pale faces, some listless, others alert, some sunk in dejection. A stock collection—the seamen among them would show immediately: they would have no trouble with the side-steps and bulwark.
The mate-of-the-watch took charge. It would not be seemly for Kydd to appear until the men were inboard and assembled; he disappeared into the lobby.
It seemed so long ago, but into his mind, as clear as the day it had happened, came his own going aboard the old battleship Duke William as a pressed man, the misery, homesickness, utter strangeness. Now these men would face the same.
"New men mustered, sir."
Kydd tugged on his hat and emerged on to the quarterdeck, aware of all eyes on him. They were bunched together in a forlorn group near the mainmast. "Get them in a line, Mr Lawes," he ordered.
A more odd assortment of dress was difficult to imagine. Bearskin hats and well-worn animal-hide jackets, greasy-grey oily woollens and ragged trousers, even two with moccasins. More than one was stooped by ill-nourishment or age. Some, the ones standing alert and wary, with blank faces, carried well-lashed seaman's bags.
"I'll speak t' them now, Mr Lawes."
The shuffling and murmuring stopped. He stepped across to stand easily in front of them, waiting until he had their eyes. "My name's L'tenant Kydd. This is HMS Tenacious. We're a ship-of-the-line an' we're part of the North American Squadron, Admiral Vandeput."
Stony stares met him. The men were clearly resigned to a fate known to some, unknown to others.
"C'n I see the hands o' the volunteers?" A scatter of men signified. "You men get th' bounty in coin today, an' liberty later t' spend it. The rest . . ." Kydd continued: "When this war started, I was a pressed man, same as you." He paused for effect. It startled some, others remained wary. "Rated landman in a second rate. An' since then I've been t' the South Seas in a frigate, the Caribbean in a cutter and the Mediterranean in a xebec. I've got a handsome amount o' prize money and now I'm a King's officer.
So who's going t' say to me the Navy can't be th' place to be for a thorough-going seaman who wants t' better himself?
"Now, think on it. Should y' decide to serve King George and y'r country you could end up th' same. Give your names t' the first lieutenant as a volunteer this afternoon and tell him y' want to do well in the sea service o' the King and he'll give ye a good chance."
Kydd turned to Lawes. "Carry on, these men. Stand fast that one an' the two at the pinrail—we'll send 'em back. Rest go below to see the doctor." The men still had their eyes on Kydd, one in particular, a thick-set seaman, who lingered after the others.
"Good haul, I think." It was Bryant, watching them leave. "Surly-looking brute, the last. Shouldn't wonder if he's shipped for some very good reason."
The sun at last became visible through a pale cloud cover, a perceptible warmth on the skin, and Kydd's spirits rose. Ashore, he could make out a different green from the sombre green-black of the boreal forest, and he thought that the country might seem quite another in summer.
The captain left with the first lieutenant to call on the officers of York Redoubt, and a young lady whom Adams had taken up with demanded his constant presence. For now, Kydd decided, he would continue his acquaintance with war's wider canvas.
This time he prepared to take notes. Sitting at the wardroom table, his back to the stern windows, he picked up his book and resumed reading. He discovered that the thousand-year republic of Venice had been sacrificed in a cynical exchange between France and Austria and that the Corsican Napoleon Buonaparte must now be considered England's chief opponent.
It was truly astonishing how much of momentous significance to the world had happened since he had gone to sea—and to think that he had been unknowingly at the heart of these events. The evening drew in, the light faded, but he had found another book, more dog-eared and harder-going, which purported to be a treatment of the economic consequences of a world at war, and he set to.
He felt a small but growing satisfaction: this was one positive course he could take, and it was shaping into a workable aspiration in life. If he could not be a natural-born officer, at least he would be an informed one.
He became aware of a figure standing and looked up. It was Tysoe, cupping a small peg lamp that glowed softly with a clear, bright flame. "Thank 'ee, Tysoe—but does Mr Hambly know I have his lamp?" It was charged with spermaceti oil and used only for painstaking work at the charts.
"Sir, he will be informed of his generous assistance to you when he returns aboard."
Kydd inclined his head to hear better. "Er, what seems t' be afoot on the upper deck?" There had been odd thumpings and occasional cries, but nothing the mate-of-the-watch could not be relied on to deal with.
Tysoe bent to trim the lamp. "The hands, sir. They wish to dance and skylark." Kydd nodded. There were men aboard, visiting from other ships, the weather was clear and it would be odd if there was not some kind of glee going in the fo'c'sle. He laid down his book. Perhaps he should cast an eye over the proceedings.
Darkness had fallen, but it was easy to make out activity on the foredeck by the light of lanthorns hung in the rigging. A hornpipe was being performed beside the jeer bitts of the foremast. Kydd wandered forward unnoticed. The seaman was skilled, his feet flashing forward to slap back rhythmically, the rigid body twirling in perfect time, while his upper body, arms folded, remained perfectly rigid and his face expressionless.
The fiddler finished with a deft upward note and, with a laugh, took a pull at his beer. "Ben Backstay!" The call was taken up around the deck, and eventually a fine-looking seaman from another ship stepped into the golden light and struck a pose.
When we sail, with a fresh'ning breeze,
And landmen all grow sick, sir;
The sailor lolls with his mind at ease,
And the song and can go quick, sir.
Laughing here,
Quaffing there,
Steadily, readily,
Cheerily, merrily,
Still from care and thinking free
Is a sailor's life for me!
The violin gaily extemporised as cheers and roars delayed the next verse. There was no problem here: these were the core seamen of Tenacious, deep-sea sailors whose profession was the sea. They were the heart and soul of the ship, not pressed men or the refuse of gaols.
With a further burst of hilarity the singer withdrew to receive his due in a dripping oak tankard, and Kydd turned to go. Then a plaintive chord floated out, it hung—and a woman's voice sounded above the lessening chatter. "Sweet Sally, an' how her true love Billy Bowling was torn fr'm her arms an' pressed." A blonde woman, standing tall and proud, continued, "Sally's heart's near broken, she can't bear t' be parted—so she disguises as a foremast jack 'n' goes aboard that very night." Kydd moved closer: the woman resembled his lost Kitty.