Kydd by Julian Stockwin Page B

from the hoses carrying detritus to the scuppers. It was monotonous, painful and humiliating. It was only the uncomplaining presence of Bowyer that kept him going through the long morning.
    At four bells the job was at last complete to the satisfaction of Tyrell, but there was no relief. One by one the articles of running rigging — the operating machinery of the ship — needed to be checked for chafing and in many cases re-reeved, end for end. Nothing prepared Kydd for the effort this would take. Even the lightweight lines of the topgallants and royals were nevertheless hundreds of feet long and in themselves were an appreciable deadweight. The same with the blocks — the big pulleys through which ropes were hauled: these were unexpectedly immense when seen close to, on deck. One top block was so massive it took four men to lift it to its fall for hoisting. With agile topmen at the summit of the towering mast tending the sheaves of the blocks, it needed the humble laborers to manhaul ropes, seized to a girt-line, up the entire height of the mainmast.
    Unexpectedly, Elkins bellowed across the deck. “Bowyer — in the maintop, clew garnets.” He paused just long enough to be noticed. “Kydd — get up there with him.”
    “Come with me, Tom lad,” Bowyer said quietly, “and be sure and look where you want ter go, never back where you’ve been.”
    In one move, Kydd’s view of his place in the scheme of things was changed. After a lifetime of living and moving in two dimensions, he was now to join the select band of those who would know the third.
    He gulped and followed, aware of the eyes of his previous fellow laborers on him.
    Bowyer crossed to the side of the ship, seized the aftermost shroud and in a little half jump hoisted himself up on to the broad top of thebulwark. He swung down to the main channel on the outside of the hull, the true beginning of the tracery of rope ladder leading up aloft. “Let’s be havin’ yer!” he called.
    Kydd grabbed the same shroud and kicked his legs up. To his mortification he found that with feet correctly on the bulwark, he hung backwards over the deck from the inward-sloping shroud, unable to move around to the outer side.
    Bowyer’s hand reached for his collar and with surprising strength pulled Kydd upright and around. They stood together on the bulwark. Even these few feet of altitude were sufficient to alter forever his notion of the ship. Every man on deck now was lower than he; the deck itself was observably in plan, and he felt a curious pleasure at the satisfying curve of the deck-line as it swept far forward.
    “Right, now, Tom, you goes first, ’n’ I’ll be right behind you.”
    Bowyer stepped aside, and there was nothing now before Kydd but the main shrouds leading up to a final focus — the big platform of the main fighting top.
    He addressed himself to the venture. The thick shrouds soaring up had thin lines across them to form a ladder. He began to climb, feet feeling shakily for the thin rope, looking obediently upward.
    “Don’t put yer hands on the ratlines,” Bowyer called from below him, “use the shrouds — they’ll never give way on yer.”
    Kydd had a brief but intense picture of the thinner line snapping in his clutching hands, letting him hurtle backwards to his doom. Nervously he moved to grip tightly the thick black vertical shrouds, shiny with use.
    Despite himself, he became aware of his increasing height, the shrouds on the other side getting closer, the deck dropping away below. He continued upward, foot finding the next ratline above while he hung on grimly; a push upward and a pause at the new level while his other foot relocated; then moving his hands gingerly one by one.
    He knew he was not moving efficiently, but at least he was safe like that. His leg muscles burned with fatigue and he stopped for a moment to rest.
    The shrouds shivered and Bowyer appeared on the broad span of shrouds next to him.
    “I’m fine, Joe,”