The man chuckled harshly. Forget home, lad. Youre crew of the Royal Billy all the time shes in commission you gets to leave her only if she goes to Davy Joness locker by bein wrecked ashore or sunk in an argyment with a Frenchie.
But . . . The idea was
too overwhelming to take in.
Look, chum, youre a pressed man, said Truscott, sames me. We dont get to go ashore, we gets paid less n a private soldier and weve less say about what we do next than a common bloody trull
so do yerself a great favor and get used to it. Youre now a foremast jack in a man-o-war, n
thats that.
Kydd breathed deeply, reaching for calm, but frustration boiled within him. He smashed his fists on the cask and gave a long hopeless roar of impotent rage.
Truscott sighed. Dont take on, lad. Nothin you can do now. Listen theres them who are goin
to suffer he glanced significantly at the broken farm-boy and theyre goin to be the muckers wholl be on every shite chore there is, fer ever more. N theres them thatll work it out n make right Jack Tars of emselves and thats no bad life when you comes at it the right way. He cleared his throat. Yell not expect to be one right off, but
Youre just talking piss n wind, you are! Stallards acid voice cut in from the dark as he scrambled over to them. He wants to know why hes a prisoner down here in this stinkin hole, not what wunnerful prospects he has! His voice rose as though he were addressing a crowd. Were here because we aint got no rights none! He paused. A groan sounded in the dark. Only cos were born in a cottage, not a mansion, were no bettern a flock of cunny sheep do this, go there, yes, sir, no, sir. Whatever they say, we do. You see any whoreson gentleman down here, then? Not a chance!
Youd better keep your trap shut once were at sea, mate, Truscott said.
Dont you worry, Mr. Sailor Man, Stallard retorted. I may know a thing or two about that you just be sure you know where youll be standin when it comes down to it.
Kydd bit his tongue. Stallard was mad if he thought he could get away with his petty seditions here
there was no chance of a mad gallop away into the night and anonymity in this closed community.
Yer frien had better learn quick, said Truscott, in a low voice. If he gets talkin wild like that hell be decoratin a yardarm before he knows where hes at.
Stallard glared at him, then slithered over to Kydd. The lanthorn gleam caught his eyes. Kydd knows what its all about, Stallard said. Aint that right, mate?
Kydd said nothing.
Were town-mates, from Guildford, Stallard told the figures draped on the casks about them, and theyve learned there to have a care when they deal with us or they could get a midnight visit from Captain Swing. He cackled. Noticing Kydds silence, he added, We stand for our rights in the old town or we lose em. Thats what we say, aint it, me old cock aint it? He thrust his face into Kydds.
Kydd kept quiet.
Well, then! I do declare! Can it be Kydds a toady to the gentry a stinkin lickspittle? Mebbe a
Something gave way. Kydd threw himself forward and smashed his fist into Stallards face, but as he did so he cracked his own head against the low deck beams. Stunned, he fell back, and Stallard dived on him, punching, clawing, gouging.
Stow it, you mad buggers! Truscott thrust himself between them, pulling Stallard off Kydd by his hair.
Stallard knelt back. Dark runnels of blood came from his nose and smeared over his face. Dont think Ill forget this, Kydd! he said.
Kydd looked at him contemptuously. Youre gallows bait, Stallardyr cronies wont save y
now!
He was interrupted by a clumping at the grating, and a petty officer appeared at the hatchway. Up
n out move yer scraggy selves!
They emerged onto the orlop deck, the dull yellow glow of the lanthorns appearing almost cheerful after the Stygian darkness of the hold.
Awaiting them were a pair of marines, in scarlet with white crossbelts and muskets, standing rigidly. The boatswains mate had two seamen with him.
Topsides, gemmun! the petty officer rasped. First Lieutenant wants to make yer acquaintance.
They were herded together, making their way along several gundecks and up endless ladderways to the main deck. Here they were assembled on one side, sheltered from the fitful drizzle by the extension of the quarterdeck above before it gave way to the open area of the boat stowage.
The Master-at-Arms arrived, flanked by his two corporals. He was a stout, florid man with dark piggy eyes that never seemed to settle. Toe the line, then! he rumbled at the petty officer.
Shoving the pressed men together, the petty officer showed them how to line up by pressing their toes up against one of the black tarry lines between the deck planking.
From
the cabin spaces aft a small party of men emerged; a lectern and a small table were set up.
Then an officer appeared in immaculate uniform and cockaded bicorne.
The Master-at-Arms stiffened. Pressed men, sir! he reported, touching his hat.
The officer said nothing but stopped, glaring, at the line of men. He took off his hat and thwacked it irritably at his side. He was short, but built like a prizefighter. His dark, bushy eyebrows and deep-set eyes gave him an edgy, dangerous look. The rich gold lace against the dark blue and white of his uniform cloaked him with authority.