It was almost completely dark now, but somehow it fitted the mood. Light from the decks below came through the gratings, gently patterning Bowyer’s face in alternating squares of light and dark, a slight breeze whiffling his thinning hair.
“You’re bred t’ the sea, Joe. I just know… how to make wigs.”
“Don’t you pay no mind to that!” Bowyer said warmly. “A sailor has it inside, just a-waitin’ to have it woken up in him – I could tell, first time I clapped peepers on yer, Tom, you has the makin’s.” He gave a slow smile. “Like it’s said, ‘Begotten in the galley and born under a gun. Every hair a rope yarn, every finger a fishhook and ’is blood right good Stockholm tar!’ ”
Kydd laughed.
“Yeah – you’re quick on your feet, got a good headpiece on yer, ’n’ you keep your eyes open. And you’ve the build for it,” Bowyer said. “An’ you have an eddication – means a lot these modern days. I’d be gunner’s mate be now if I could figure them books.”
Kydd sat back. There was some truth in Bowyer’s words. Clearly, if he was to be imprisoned aboard for some indefinite time it made sense to avoid staying at the bottom of the heap. But he was rated on board as the lowest form of life, a landman. Without an academy for sailoring how could he qualify upward?
Bowyer seemed to sense his thoughts. “You make your own chances, cuffin. You show willin’, you’ll get yer start.” He smiled broadly. “Like this. Tomorrow forenoon, when it’s part-of-ship for priddying down, we goes together to the maintop – up there, Tom! First step is leavin’ the deck to the land toggies, and go where a sailor goes – aloft!”
Kydd glanced up at the arrogant thrust of the great black masts and spars against the cold dusk clouds and his heart quailed.
“Haaands turn to, part-of-ship! All the hands!”
The afterguard part-of-ship in the form of Elkins was waiting for them the next morning, and under the eye of the boatswain and Lieutenant Tewsley he lost no time in dispatching the men in parties to their respective tasks.
“Bowyer, brace pendants with Pinto,” he ordered.
Glancing at Kydd, Bowyer said to Elkins mildly, “Be a chance to get Kydd aloft, learn some ropes – can I have him up there?”
“No,” said Elkins shortly, “you’ve got Pinto. Kydd stays on the holystones.”
Bowyer paused. “Then, Mr. Elkins, I’d be obliged if you’d allow me to join him.”
Elkins looked at him, astonished. His jaw hardened. “You’re a clinking fool, Joe, always were, so get down on yer hunkers and get scrubbin’ with ’im, then.”
Kydd looked up from rolling up his duck trousers to see Bowyer do the same next to him. “I thought…”
“This life, you can’t always get what yer want – but you can learn to take it. Move over, mate.”
Captain Caldwell had made it quite plain that he regarded efficiency and smartness to be equivalents. As First Lieutenant, Tyrell would be judged on appearances, and this would mean at the very least continual hard labor for all. The gunner’s party toiled at their pieces; each cannon would receive close attention from canvas and brickdust, then be blackened with a shining mixture of lampblack, beeswax and turpentine. This left little time for vital work on vent and bore, or even chipping roundshot.
And, of course, there was the appearance of the decks. While the sea- men were aloft, the unskilled laborers of the sea rolled up their trousers, and with decks well a-swim from the wash-deck hose, and with sand liberally scattered over the planking, they began the soul-grinding misery of holystoning the decks. In a line the men moved from forward, on hands and knees and pushing a book-shaped piece of sandstone. Thomas Kydd was one of them. Twenty yards of the quarterdeck on, his knees were red and sore with the gritty sand and little splinters, but his chief suffering was the bitter pain from the icy water that pulsed relentlessly from the hoses carrying detritus to the scuppers. It was monotonous, painful and humiliating. It was only the uncomplaining presence of Bowyer that kept him going through the long morning.
At four bells the job was at last complete to the satisfaction of Tyrell, but there was no relief. One by one the articles of running rigging – the operating machinery of the ship – needed to be checked for chafing and in many cases re-reeved, end for end. Nothing prepared Kydd for the effort this would take. Even the lightweight lines of the topgallants and royals were nevertheless hundreds of feet long and in themselves were an appreciable deadweight. The same with the blocks – the big pulleys through which ropes were hauled: these were unexpectedly immense when seen close to, on deck. One top block was so massive it took four men to lift it to its fall for hoisting. With agile topmen at the summit of the towering mast tending the sheaves of the blocks, it needed the humble laborers to manhaul ropes, seized to a girt-line, up the entire height of the mainmast.
Unexpectedly, Elkins bellowed across the deck. “Bowyer – in the maintop, clew garnets.” He paused just long enough to be noticed. “Kydd – get up there with him.”
“Come with me, Tom lad,” Bowyer said quietly, “and be sure and look where you want ter go, never back where you’ve been.”
In one move, Kydd’s view of his place in the scheme of things was changed. After a lifetime of living and moving in two dimensions, he was now to join the select band of those who would know the third.
He gulped and followed, aware of the eyes of his previous fellow laborers on him.
Bowyer crossed to the side of the ship, seized the aftermost shroud and in a little half jump hoisted himself up on to the broad top of the bulwark. He swung down to the main channel on the outside of the hull, the true beginning of the tracery of rope ladder leading up aloft. “Let’s be havin’ yer!” he called.
Kydd grabbed the same shroud and kicked his legs up. To his mortification he found that with feet correctly on the bulwark, he hung backwards over the deck from the inward-sloping shroud, unable to move around to the outer side.
Bowyer’s hand reached for his collar and with surprising strength pulled Kydd upright and around. They stood together on the bulwark. Even these few feet of altitude were sufficient to alter forever his notion of the ship. Every man on deck now was lower than he; the deck itself was observably in plan, and he felt a curious pleasure at the satisfying curve of the deck-line as it swept far forward.
“Right, now, Tom, you goes first, ’n’ I’ll be right behind you.”
Bowyer stepped aside, and there was nothing now before Kydd but the main shrouds leading up to a final focus – the big platform of the main fighting top.
He addressed himself to the venture. The thick shrouds soaring up had thin lines across them to form a ladder. He began to climb, feet feeling shakily for the thin rope, looking obediently upward.
“Don’t put yer hands on the ratlines,” Bowyer called from below him, “use the shrouds – they’ll never give way on yer.”
Kydd had a brief but intense picture of the thinner line snapping in his clutching hands, letting him hurtle backwards to his doom. Nervously he moved to grip tightly the thick black vertical shrouds, shiny with use.
Despite himself, he became aware of his increasing height, the shrouds on the other side getting closer, the deck dropping away below. He continued upward, foot finding the next ratline above while he hung on grimly; a push upward and a pause at the new level while his other foot relocated; then moving his hands gingerly one by one.
He knew he was not moving efficiently, but at least he was safe like that. His leg muscles burned with fatigue and he stopped for a moment to rest.
The shrouds shivered and Bowyer appeared on the broad span of shrouds next to him.
“I’m fine, Joe,” Kydd said.
“Yeah – but watch that feller over there.” Bowyer was pointing to the opposite ratlines. A seaman was mounting the shrouds in a fast, economic swing. “See how he uses his hands to pull himself up, only rests his feet. Doesn’t go at it like he was climbin’ stairs.”