Kydd needed more. “What’s this about a gun, then?”
“That’s your post at quarters. We get ourselves into an action, you go to number-three gun lower deck” – he pointed to it -“but I doubts we’ll get much o’ that unless the Frogs want ter be beat again.” Taking another pull at his grog, Bowyer grinned.
But Kydd wasn’t about to let go. “When do I have t’ climb the mast, Joe?”
Bowyer’s laugh stilled the table’s conversation for a moment. He leaned forward. “Tom, me old shipmate, you’re a landman. That means nobody expects you to do anything more’n pull on a rope and swab the uppers all day. Me, I’m an able seaman, I c’n hand, reef and steer, so we gets to go aloft, you don’t.” Finishing his grog, he looked across at Kydd, his guileless gray eyes, clubbed pigtail and sun-bleached seaman’s gear making him the picture of a deep-sea mariner. He smiled good-humoredly. “That’s not ter say you’ll be a landman for ever. What say we take a stroll around the barky? Starbowlines are off watch this afternoon ’n’ yer could be learnin’ something.”
They came out by the big fore hatch onto the upper deck. Up a short ladder and they were on a deck space at the foot of the foremast, beneath its sails and rigging. The wind was raw and cutting, and the odd fleck of spray driven up by the bows bit at the skin.
“Now, Tom, this ’ere raised part is the fo’c’sle deck, an’ at the other end of the hooker is another, and it’s the quarterdeck, and we move between the two parts by means of them there gangways each side. Gives a pleasin’ sweep o’ deck, fore ’n’ aft.”
Kydd nodded. “So is this then the upper deck?” he asked.
“It’s not, mate. The upper deck is the top one of all that can run continuous the whole length, so it’s the one next under us. We often calls it the main deck, and this one the spar deck, ’cos we useta keep the spare spars handy here.”
Looking about, Kydd tried not to be awkward. “But I see one more deck above this, right at the end.”
“Aye, that’s the poop deck – important on a smaller ship keepin’ waves from comin’ aboard when we’ve got a following sea, but all it really is are the Captain’s cabins all raised up off the quarterdeck – the coach, we calls it.” Bowyer looked meaningfully at Kydd. “You should know, Tom, that the fo’c’sle is the place fer common sailors.” He turned and looked aft. “And the quarterdeck is fer officers. If you’re not on dooty you don’t go there or -”
“I know,” said Kydd.
“It’s a kind of holy ground – same even fer the officers,” Bowyer said seriously, “and they ’n’ you should pay respec’ when crossin’ on to it.”
Kydd’s quizzical look did not bring an explanation.
Bowyer tilted his head to gaze up at the complex array of masts, yards, sails and rigging with something that closely resembled affection. “Now, lookee there, Tom. Any ship-rigged packet has three masts, fore, main and mizzen, and the names of the yards and sails are nearly the same on all of ’em, so you need learn only one. And the ropes an’ all – they take their names from the masts and sails they work, so they’re the same.”
Kydd tried to adopt a nonchalant pose, holding on to a substantial-looking rope. Bowyer winced. “Be careful now, Tom – we scratches a backstay to get a wind, and we don’t want ter tempt fate, now, do we?” He moved on quickly. “And we rate our ships depending on ’ow many guns we ’ave. This one ’as three decks of guns, the most of any, near enough, so we’re the biggest, a line-of-battle ship.” The guns on the fo’c’sle glistened blackly with damp. “We’ve got near one hunnerd o’ the great guns, the biggest down low, where we lives. We can take on anything afloat, me lad. You pity the poor bastard that finds ’imself lookin’ down the eyes o’ these beauties.”
The chill wind fluttered Kydd’s jacket and made him shudder. By mutual consent they passed down the ladder to the deck below. It was mainly enclosed, but open to the sky for a distance between foremast and mainmast, here crossed by thick skid beams on which the ship’s boats were stowed.
They passed the open area to go aft. The big main hatches were here below it, a passage deep into the bowels of the vessel, and garlanded with cannon balls like lethal strands of black pearls. Past the imposing bulk of the mainmast was a final ladderway down, but across the whole width of the deck aft, their way was now barred by a darkly polished bulkhead with doors each side.
“There’s where the Admiral lives, Tom – an’ like a prince!” Bowyer moved closer and spoke reverently. “And that’s where they plan out the battles ’n’ such.” His mouth twitched. “’Twas also the place where Jemmy Boyes and his mates went afore a court-martial. Mutiny, they called it, although it were really them only talkin’ wry – the year ’eighty-seven that was.” He looked forward, his mouth compressed to a hard line. “It were our own fore yardarm where they was turned off, God save ’em.”
For a moment he stood, then went over to the ladder and looked down. “We have two more decks of guns below us, ’n’ then it’s the water-line.”
“And where were we at the purser’s?”
“Well, I didn’t say we had no more decks under the waterline,” Bowyer said. “In fact, me old gullion, we have the orlop under the lower gundeck, and that was where you was before.”
He cracked his knuckles. “Interestin’ place, the orlop. Right forrard you get the boatswain and Chips. They both have their cabin and their stores. But turn round and right aft you get the sawbones, the purser and their stores – and not forgettin’ the midshipmen’s berth.”
He looked down, as though the deck were transparent. “And all the middle bit is where the anchor cables are laid out in tiers, and where yer go down inside the gun magazines. Lots o’ dark, rummy places about, down in the orlop. Wouldn’t advise rovin’ about down there without yer’ve got a friend.” He swung round with a grin. “And then all that’s left below is the hold. But I guess yer know all about that – it’s where the pressed men go afore we sails. It’s where all the water and vittles are stowed, and when we clears for action all the gear gets sent down there.” Bowyer punched him on the shoulder. “So now you knows all the decks, we’ll go visit ’em!”
There was no hanging back, and for the remainder of the watch Kydd found himself plunging after Bowyer – down ladders, along rows of huge guns, on gratings out above the sea and, in fact, to places it was impossible to believe might belong on a ship of war. A cookhouse with monstrous cauldrons simmering over an iron-hearted fire. A manger, complete with goats and chickens. A cockpit – but no cocks that Kydd could detect. And many – multitudes – of objects and places that Bowyer clearly thought important, but had no meaning to Kydd.
They happened to be under the boats when four double strikes sounded from the belfry just above. “Know what that means, Tom? It’s ‘up spirits’ and then supper, me old griff!”
In a whirlpool of impressions Kydd followed Bowyer down to the lower gundeck and the welcome fug of the mess. Howell looked up sourly. “You tryin’ to make Kydd a jolly Jack Tar, then, Joe?”
“You sayin’ he shouldn’t be?” Bowyer snapped.
“I’m sayin’ as how he don’t know what he’s a-comin’ to. He’s not bred to the sea, he’s a landlubber, don’t belong.” He became heated. “Can you see him out on the yard in a gale of wind, doin’ real sailorin’? Nah. All his days he’s gonna be on his knees and arse up with a holystone – that is, when he’s not huckin’ out the heads or swiggin’ off on the braces!” He leaned forward and told Bowyer earnestly, “’S not right fer you to fill his head with grand ideas – he’s never going to be a sailorman. Sooner he knows it, better for him.”
Pointedly ignoring him, Bowyer took down their mess traps. “We’ve got first dog-watch straight after, so we takes a bit o’ ballast aboard now, Tom, mate!”
It was still light on deck, showing up the swarm of small vessels around them, which were seizing the opportunity to slip down Channel with an unofficial escort of such unchallengeable might.