Free Kydd by Julian Stockwin Page A

shape than we by a long haul.”
    “Jus’ let me get alongside my Polly — she’s been a-waitin’ for me ’n’ my tackle since St. Geoffrey’s Day.”
    The excited chatter ebbed and flowed around Kydd, until it crossed his mind that if the others went ashore, then there might be a chance for him to slip away. A few days’ tramp along the London Road and he’d be back, God be praised, in the rural tranquillity of Guildford.Distant bells sounded from forward. A hand on his arm broke into these happy thoughts. “Stir yerself, Tom. Now we can get our heads down until mornin’,” said Bowyer.
    Their way lit by a lanthorn carried by a ship’s corporal, they passed down to the lower deck. Shadowy figures, the last of the larbowlines, hurried past.
    After the cold dankness of the open air, the heat and fug of the broad space, full of slowly swaying hammocks, was prodigious. The air was thick with the musty odor of many men in a confined space and the creeping fetor of bilge smells. With fatigue closing in on him in waves, Kydd stumbled over to his hammock. Stripping off his outer clothes, he followed the example of the others and rolled them into a pillow. He then addressed himself to the task of getting in. It took only two tries before he was aboard, agreeably enfolded by the canvas sides. Some cautious wriggles and he found that the hammock was remarkably stable and, in fact, astonishingly comfortable. The meager “mattress” conformed to his shape and the single coarse blanket was hardly needed, with the heat of so much humanity.
    Lying there, too exhausted to sleep, he let his eyes wander restlessly over the scene — the loom of hammocks all around, the dark closeness of the deckhead above and the last few moving figures. Then the lanthorns were removed, and he was left alone with his thoughts in utter blackness.
    There was an air of excitement and anticipation as the far-off soft green and gray-black of the land resolved into the Isle of Wight, and Portsmouth, with its sheltered naval anchorage of Spithead. The weather had held, and there was nothing to disturb the winter-bright pearlescence in sea and sky.
Duke William
glided in under all plain sail toward the long dark smudge ahead that was the Fleet at anchor.
    A wearisome forenoon had been spent on the ship’s appearance, for it was well known that Admiral Howe was no friend to the indolent. Besides a thorough holystone fore and aft, salt-stained sides were sluiced with fresh water, brightwork brought to a thorough gleam and the seadulled colors around the beakhead and figurehead touched up to their usual striking splendor.
    Around the catted bower anchors and aloft, men had been workingsince daybreak. It was clear from the short tempers on the quarterdeck that more than appearances would shortly be judged.
    Along the line of the deck the gunner’s party were busy at the twelve-pounders with wadhook and shot ladle, removing the live charge and shot from each new-blacked gun. At sea a ship had to be ready to meet any enemy appearing unexpectedly with immediate fire. Now the guns would carry nothing more lethal than a blank saluting cartridge.
    The hawse bucklers were removed from the eyes in the bows, the massive twenty-five-inch cable roused out from the tiers below and passed through them before being secured to the bower anchor. Finally the sea lashings were removed, leaving the anchor suspended only by a single stopper. Amidships, the barge and cutter were readied for lowering, the barge crew going below to shift into their smart gear. Kydd noticed activity on the poop deck around the flag locker. Bright bunting, vivid on the gray day, was carefully checked, with the ensign and jack laid out ready for the staff.
    Duke William
neared the land, which now took on more detail. Kydd marveled at the number of ships about — tiny tan and white specks of sails up and down the coast as far as he could see: merchantmen, passenger craft and cumbersome naval