needles. Those were no delicate darning needles: instead they were long and heavy, three-sided implements, which they drove through the stout canvas using a leather device strapped to their palms.
“Clap on here, mate,” said Bowyer. “We’re sending up yer sail now to fix on to its yard.” A long sausage of canvas had made its way on deck, and an astonishing amount of rope lay in long coils next to it. “We uses the buntlines to haul it up for bending, but it being a t’gallant and all, the line is too short to come from aloft, so we bends on some extra.”
Kydd let it all wash over him. It was beyond his powers to retain, but he was sure that Bowyer would be on hand later to explain. At the present moment he urgently needed to find his bearings and, indeed, himself.
The watch passed quickly in a flurry of hauling, belaying and repeating this on other ropes in sequence with events, the canvas sausage making its way up the mast to its final glory as a trim, smartly set sail. Dusk was well and truly drawing in when the pealing of boatswains’ calls erupted forward. “There yer go, Tom, the Spithead nightingales are singin’. Larbowlines are on deck now, ’n’ we can go below — but first we’ve somethin’ to do, brother.”
Kydd followed him down to the lanthorn-lit forward end of the main deck. It was crowded with men, gathered closely around a quartermaster’s mate standing just abaft the foremast, and next to a small pile of clothing and other gear. Lieutenant Tewsley was there, hat held informally in his hand and his seamed face somber.
Bowyer coughed self-consciously. “This is what we do for them what goes over the standin’ part of the foresheet.”
At Kydd’s look of incomprehension he said, “That is to say, them which tops their boom dies at sea — like Ollie Higgins did this forenoon off the mainyard.”
Kydd felt a stab of guilt at the stark memory of the man cartwheeling into the sea, knowing that it had been buried in the avalanche of images and experiences to which he had been subjected since.
Bowyer continued, in a low voice, “We gets into Spithead tomorrow, so we holds an auction on his clobber now. If we c’n find a little silver for ’is widow, well, it’s somethin’.”
The auction proceeded, low shouts as bids were cast and clothing fingered in quiet remembrance. Noticing Bowyer involved in the bidding,Kydd wondered what to do. There were only pennies left of what he had had in his pocket when pressed, and only volunteers received the bounty.
“’Ere you are, Tom,” Bowyer said, and passed over a well-worn sea-man’s knife and sheath. “Ollie was a topman, and you can trust ’is steel to be the best.” Kydd hesitated. “Go on, mate, take it — he won’t be needin’ it now, and he’d be happy it’s still goin’ to do its dooty.”
Kydd’s helpless fumbling at his pocket made Bowyer touch his arm. “Don’t worry about that, mate. You’ll find nobody cares about us — we ’as to look to ourselves. Yer’ll not see a penny o’ yer pay for half a year or more, so we’ll square yardarms some other time.”
Self-consciously, Kydd undid his broad belt and strapped on the knife, settling the sheath into place on the flat of his right buttock as Bowyer had his.
Bowyer paid over several more silver coins and was handed a crackling bundle of olive-gray skins. “This is what yer’ll reckon best, Tom, out on the yard in a winter nor’easter — an honest sealskin warmer under your jacket. Keeps out the cold like a hero.”
Outside the purser’s store on the orlop Kydd tried again. “Look, Joe, you don’t have to —”
“Leave it be, Tom!” Bowyer said, gruffly.
Kydd drew his issue hammocks and meager bedding. Bowyer fingered it doubtfully. “Listen, mate, only way yer goin’ to get a good kip in a hammacoe is if I tells yer how. So let’s be at it — we’re on watch right after hammocks are piped down. I’ll give yer a hand.” Bowyer clicked
“Clap on here, mate,” said Bowyer. “We’re sending up yer sail now to fix on to its yard.” A long sausage of canvas had made its way on deck, and an astonishing amount of rope lay in long coils next to it. “We uses the buntlines to haul it up for bending, but it being a t’gallant and all, the line is too short to come from aloft, so we bends on some extra.”
Kydd let it all wash over him. It was beyond his powers to retain, but he was sure that Bowyer would be on hand later to explain. At the present moment he urgently needed to find his bearings and, indeed, himself.
The watch passed quickly in a flurry of hauling, belaying and repeating this on other ropes in sequence with events, the canvas sausage making its way up the mast to its final glory as a trim, smartly set sail. Dusk was well and truly drawing in when the pealing of boatswains’ calls erupted forward. “There yer go, Tom, the Spithead nightingales are singin’. Larbowlines are on deck now, ’n’ we can go below — but first we’ve somethin’ to do, brother.”
Kydd followed him down to the lanthorn-lit forward end of the main deck. It was crowded with men, gathered closely around a quartermaster’s mate standing just abaft the foremast, and next to a small pile of clothing and other gear. Lieutenant Tewsley was there, hat held informally in his hand and his seamed face somber.
Bowyer coughed self-consciously. “This is what we do for them what goes over the standin’ part of the foresheet.”
At Kydd’s look of incomprehension he said, “That is to say, them which tops their boom dies at sea — like Ollie Higgins did this forenoon off the mainyard.”
Kydd felt a stab of guilt at the stark memory of the man cartwheeling into the sea, knowing that it had been buried in the avalanche of images and experiences to which he had been subjected since.
Bowyer continued, in a low voice, “We gets into Spithead tomorrow, so we holds an auction on his clobber now. If we c’n find a little silver for ’is widow, well, it’s somethin’.”
The auction proceeded, low shouts as bids were cast and clothing fingered in quiet remembrance. Noticing Bowyer involved in the bidding,Kydd wondered what to do. There were only pennies left of what he had had in his pocket when pressed, and only volunteers received the bounty.
“’Ere you are, Tom,” Bowyer said, and passed over a well-worn sea-man’s knife and sheath. “Ollie was a topman, and you can trust ’is steel to be the best.” Kydd hesitated. “Go on, mate, take it — he won’t be needin’ it now, and he’d be happy it’s still goin’ to do its dooty.”
Kydd’s helpless fumbling at his pocket made Bowyer touch his arm. “Don’t worry about that, mate. You’ll find nobody cares about us — we ’as to look to ourselves. Yer’ll not see a penny o’ yer pay for half a year or more, so we’ll square yardarms some other time.”
Self-consciously, Kydd undid his broad belt and strapped on the knife, settling the sheath into place on the flat of his right buttock as Bowyer had his.
Bowyer paid over several more silver coins and was handed a crackling bundle of olive-gray skins. “This is what yer’ll reckon best, Tom, out on the yard in a winter nor’easter — an honest sealskin warmer under your jacket. Keeps out the cold like a hero.”
Outside the purser’s store on the orlop Kydd tried again. “Look, Joe, you don’t have to —”
“Leave it be, Tom!” Bowyer said, gruffly.
Kydd drew his issue hammocks and meager bedding. Bowyer fingered it doubtfully. “Listen, mate, only way yer goin’ to get a good kip in a hammacoe is if I tells yer how. So let’s be at it — we’re on watch right after hammocks are piped down. I’ll give yer a hand.” Bowyer clicked
Similar Books
