Kydd Read Online Free

dark, he saw that the gundeck, which before had seemed a spacious sweep of bare decks, now appeared crammed with men. It was difficult to make sense of all that went on, but there was no mistaking the role of the big capstan. Deck pillars around it were removed and capstan bars more than ten feet long were socketed and pinned in a giant starfish pattern, a taut line connecting their ends to ensure an even strain on all.
    “Nippers! Where’s those bloody nippers?” bellowed a petty officer.
    A ship’s boy stumbled up with a clump of lengths of rope, each a few yards long.
    “Bring to, the messenger!”
    A rope as thick as an arm was eased around the barrel of the capstan, the ends heaved away forward to be seized together in an endless loop. Activity subsided.
    “Man the capstan!”
    Kydd found himself pushed into place at a capstan bar, among a colorful assortment of men. Some, like himself, were still in shoreside clothing of varying degrees of quality, others wore the scarlet of the marines.
    “Silence, fore ’n’ aft!”
    Men stood easy, flexing arms and shoulders. Kydd gulped. It was only a few days since he had been standing behind the counter, talking ribbons with the Countess of Onslow. Now he was a victim of the pressgang, sent to sea to defend England. It crossed his mind that she would be outraged to see him transplanted to this context, but then decided that she would not — hers was an old naval family.
    “Take the strain, heave ’round!” The distant cry was instantly taken up.
    Following the motions of the others, Kydd leaned his chest against the capstan bar, his hands clasping up from underneath. For a moment nothing happened, then the bar began to revolve at a slow walk. A fiddler started up in the shadows on one side, a fife picking up with a perky trill opposite.
    “Heave around — cheerly, lads!”
    It was hard, bruising work. In the gloom and mustiness, sweating bodies labored; thunderous creaks and sharp wooden squeals answered with deep-throated shudders as the cable started taking up. The muscles on the back of Kydd’s legs ached at the unaccustomed strain.
    “Well enough — fleet the messenger!”
    A precious respite. Kydd lay panting against the bar, body bowed. Looking up, he caught in the obscurity of the outer shadows the eyes of a boatswain’s mate watching him. The man padded back and forth like a leopard, the rope’s end held on his side flicking spasmodically. “Heave ’round!”
    Again the monotonous trudge. The atmosphere was hot and fetid, the rhythmic clank of the pawls and the ever-changing, ever-same scenery as the capstan rotated became hypnotic.
    The pace slowed. “Heave and a pawl! Get your backs into it! Heave and a pawl!”
    Suddenly a pungent sea smell permeated the close air, and Kydd noticed that the cable disappearing below was well slimed with light blue-gray mud. A few more reluctant clanks, then motion ceased.
    “One more pawl! Give it all you can, men!” The officer’s young voice cracked with urgency.
    Kydd’s muscles burned, but there would be no relief until the anchor was won, so he joined with the others in a heavy straining effort. All that resulted was a single, sullen clank. He felt his eyes bulge with effort, and his sweat dropped in dark splodges on the deck beneath him.
    It was an impasse. Their best efforts had not tripped the anchor. Along the bars men hung, panting heavily.
    There was a clatter at the ladder and an officer appeared. Kydd thought he recognized him. The man next to him tensed.
    Garrett strode to the center of the deck. “Why the hell have we stopped, Mr. Lockwood? Get your men to work immediately, the lazy scum!” The high voice was spiteful, malicious.
    Lockwood’s eyes flickered and he turned his back on Garrett. “Now, lads, it’s the heavy heave and the anchor’s a-trip. Fresh and dry nippers for the heavy heave!”
    Kydd was exhausted. His muscles trembled and he felt light-headed. His bitterness at his fate