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his alone.
    “Mizzen, loose all sail to a bowline!”
    Kydd turned instantly.
    “Lay aloft an’ loose mizzen tops’l!”
    No point in going through the orders in detail from the deck, when the captain of the mizzen top was perfectly capable of taking charge on the spot. Kydd wheeled around and snapped, “Let go brails and vangs—man the clew outhaul and out spanker!”
    The mizzen did not have a course spread on the cro’jack to worry about, but it did have a mighty fore and aft sail, the spanker, and this with not only a lower boom but a substantial gaff that had to be bodily raised apeak.
    “Get those men movin’, the maudling old women!” he threw irritably at the petty offi cer of the afterguard in charge of the halliard crew on deck. This was no time to be cautious, here directly under the captain’s eye.
    The mizzen topsail yard was nearly hoisted. Kydd bit his lip, but the sail came tumbling down at just the right time. He had been right to trust the men in the top.
    “Lay aloft—loose t’ garns’l!” Men swarmed up the higher shrouds, while below the topsail was settled. With the sail hanging down limply as it was, Kydd had foreseen the need to haul out the foot forward, and used the old trick of untoggling the top bowlines from their bridles and shifting them to a buntline cringle.

Quarterdeck
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    He stole a quick glance at Houghton. The captain stood impassive, waiting.
    The topgallant set, it was then just the mizzen royal—and the gaskets came off smartly at just the time the spanker gaff reached its fi nal position. Kydd judged that there would be no need on this occasion for play with a jigger at the spanker outhaul, and simply waited for the motion to cease.
    “Start the halliards b’ a foot or two,” he warned the afterguard—they had unwisely belayed fully before the order.
    Sheepishly they threw off the turns, but Kydd was startled by a blast of annoyance from the captain. “What the devil are you about, Mr Kydd? Not yet fi nished?”
    The sprightly sound of “Roast Beef of Old England” on fi fe and drum echoed up from the main deck. The men had already taken their issue of grog and gone below for the high point of their noonday meal, leaving the deck to the offi cers and indispensables of the watch. As they returned to work, to part-of-ship for cleaning, Kydd thankfully answered the call and made his way to the wardroom.
    The table was spread, wine was uncorked and splashing into glasses; expressions were easing after the morning’s tensions.
    Laughter erupted at one end of the table and the fragrance of roast pork agreeably fi lled the air.
    “Your good health, brother!” Renzi grinned at Kydd over his glass: he had done tolerably well at the mainmast that morning, avoiding the captain’s wrath at the last moment by quick-thinking at the braces.
    “Thank ye—and yours, old friend,” Kydd replied. There was a lot to think about, not the least of which was his standing in this world, so utterly different from that of the seaman.
    An insistent tinkling intruded into his thoughts. It was the second lieutenant, tapping his glass with a spoon. “Gentlemen, 64

Julian Stockwin
    may I have your attention?” He waited until the talk died. “I don’t have to tell you that we shall soon be rejoining the fl eet, which means, of course, that we shall need to provision against some months at sea.”
    He looked pointedly at Kydd. “There are some who are victualled ‘bare Navy’ but have nevertheless seen fi t to accept the hospitality of this mess.” Mystifi ed, Kydd turned to Adams, who merely raised his eyebrows. “This is neither fair nor honourable.
    But be that as it may, in my humble post as mess caterer, I have calculated that we shall need to consider the sum of fi fty pounds per annum as a minimum subscription.”
    “Preposterous! That’s more’n fi ve poun’ a head!” Bryant’s glass trembled in mid-air. “What do we get for that?”
    Bampton heaved a theatrical