There was never a definite time. Never an exact defining instant at which England finally vanished. One moment the far line of the land was there, only just, and the next time Kydd remembered to look, there was nothing but a horizon innocent of anything but the rimming seascape. It should have been a special moment, leaving his native country astern, but he only felt a curious separation, one in which England carried on with its own cares, duties and pleasures down one line of existence, while Kydd and his watery world went another.
At breakfast on the lower deck Kydd kept quiet. There was just too much to take in. Between decks there were new sounds: creaks, groans and random cracks that gradually resolved into a regular sequence – a long-drawn-out deep-throated shudder, followed by a volley of creaks, before a descending sigh of minor sounds. It was also a strange feeling ’tween-decks when there was no horizon visible to act as cue; body perceptions said that the entire structure was rearing up and plunging down, but the eyes just as firmly insisted that everything was solidly unmoving.
No sooner had they completed breakfast than Kydd was startled by the sound of a drum, loud in the confined space of the lower deck. Cutting through the hubbub in rhythmic rolls, its martial sound volleyed irresistibly, an urgent beating, on and on. Instantly there was turmoil. It was clear that this was nothing ordinary – the concentrated look on men’s faces told him that. With thumping heart it dawned on him that this must be the call to arms, a clarion call to duty. If this was battle he could not be more unready. His anxiety turned to fear that he would let his shipmates down, that by his act others would suffer. He stumbled through the welter of activity.
“Bear a fist, then, you useless lubber!” yelled an unknown figure, passing over a detached mess table.
He joined the stream of men striking the tables, mess traps and all their homely articles into the hold below.
The guns were being readied. Where before they had been mere background features of the living spaces, much the same as the old oak sideboard in the living room in Guildford, now they seemed to come alive, to crouch like beasts in Kydd’s sharpened imagination.
“Kydd – is that you?” A young lieutenant with a frown looked at him.
“Yes, sir!”
“Number-three gun, then,” the lieutenant said irritably, more interested in his piece of paper. He moved on.
Kydd moved smartly to the gun indicated. It seemed enormous. Around it was a crowd of men casting it loose and taking up positions. The gun captain acknowledged his presence with a surly nod, busy checking his equipment.
The lower deck was crowded with men, even though only one side of guns was in operation, on the weather, and therefore higher, side. With shrill squeals gunport lids were raised on pulleys, allowing natural light to flood in and giving a close view of the sea outside. It suddenly dawned on Kydd why the inside of the ports and timbers around the guns were painted in so bright a scarlet. The wind streamed straight in through the gunports, making him shiver but bringing a welcome clean sea tang. He wondered what else might be out there, and ducked down to look out.
The sea, bright after the gloom, slid past only a few feet down, individual flecks and flurries in perfect clarity. But of the enemy there was nothing, just endless marching waves, looking much closer and more alive than on deck. It was surprising to feel the calming effect of the horizon. He had made his first vital discovery of the sea: that in a world where every single thing seemed to be in motion, here was something that was fixed and solid, could be relied on – the line of the horizon. Straightening, he dared a look at the man next to him. He was thin and ugly, and wore a beaver hat as shapeless as it was characterful.
The man glanced around and caught Kydd staring at him. He was very ugly, his face foreshortened like a monkey, the forehead disappearing too quickly into a stubble of hair. “You lookin’ for a souse in the chops, cock?” he croaked, in a grog-ravaged voice.
Kydd mumbled something and tried to give his attention to his opposite number, an Iberian by appearance. The man saw him, but looked away in contempt, probably because he was a landman.
The gun captain straightened, and held up his arm. The man was all muscle, and with his striped shirt and red bandanna closely tied over his hair, resembled a pirate. His eyes were hard and took in everything.
“Silence! Silence, fore and aft!” It was the young lieutenant, shrill with anxiety, pacing down the midline of the ship. “The Captain desires me to inform you all that it is his intention to exercise the great guns every morning without fail.”
So much for the enemy and mortal combat, thought Kydd, not sure whether to be relieved or disappointed.
It seemed the officer did not know whether to keep his black-japanned speaking trumpet behind his back or ready in front of him. “We have the heaviest guns in the ship, and therefore the most decisive weapons in battle. If we can hit harder, faster, then we will win. Otherwise we will lose. So we are going to practice and practice until we are good enough – and then we practice some more until we are the best. Mark my words, any man who hangs back will be dealt with instantly.”
The seamen waiting by their guns watched him tight-faced or warily as their experience told them.
“Gun captains, prove crews in your own time! Carry on.”
The man in the red bandanna spat on his hands. “Me name’s Stirk.” He fixed them with his fierce eyes. “Now, there’s them what don’t know me methods yet” – he took in several of them with his glance -“and there’s them what do. Ain’t that right, Doggo?”
He was addressing the ugly man next to Kydd, who grinned a gaptoothed acknowledgment. “Yer has yer ways, is the right of it, Toby.”
“Then let’s get to it. Slow time it is. Cast loose, Jewkes.”
The gun was lashed by its muzzle into docile obedience like an ox by its nose. Jewkes, a nervous, slightly built man, pulled himself astride it and cast off the lashing, which he coiled neatly on the eyebolt.
“Watch yer arse,” another said, and paid out the side tackles in long fakes, while others passed over the implements of gunnery – crow, handspike, sponge.
“Level guns!”
Once the quoins were slammed in place, the cocked-up appearance of the massive piece took on a more straight-eyed and businesslike appearance.
“Tompion!”
The muzzle gaped open.
Stirk stood back and looked appraisingly at them all. “Right, let’s ’ave a few changes. Bull, I want you on the crow – yeah, take it, then. Pedro, we’ll ’ave you on the rammer this time.”
A barrel-chested man with a near bald head pushed out and grabbed the crow from unresisting hands. The Iberian sauntered across to claim a long stave tipped with a cup-shaped piece of wood. Tension was reflected in his glittering dark eyes.
“Doggo, I want you to lead on the left tackle, ’n’ you, whassername, join ’im.”
Kydd moved across and found himself in a line of men at the tackle fall. He placed himself unobtrusively at the end.
Stirk considered. “Well, that’ll do fer now. Remember, you doesn’t pull yer weight, I comes down on yer hard, as yez know.” He took his position at the breech of the gun. “Now, ye know me method – we gets it straight afore we gets it fast. So we go through the drill, b’ order. Stand by!” He glared at his gun crew one by one. “Run out th’ gun!”
While those with implements watched, Kydd and the others tugged at the tackle. The monster gun sullenly ground a foot or two toward the port. On this point of sailing the deck was canted, so the work was all uphill.
“Stap me,” marveled Stirk, “but you’re a useless pawky lot! Let’s ’ave some real ’eavy in it, then.”