Balkan Glory (Thomas Kydd) by Julian Stockwin

Author:Julian Stockwin [Stockwin, Julian]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Published: 2020-10-01T04:00:00+00:00

Chapter 38

As if in salute to the gladdening scenes unfolding in Tyger, the winds took pity, eased and, well before nightfall, sail was loosed for the north.

And the mystery of the island-overwhelming waves became clear. It was not gigantic billows devastating the high-sided islands, it was sea-smoke, fine mist driven from the sea surface to soak the windward side in an all-poisoning salt.

Some days later, coming up to the next of Dillon’s stealthy landings, Kydd shared the deck with his confidential secretary. ‘Edward, is our younker enduring at all?’

‘I’ve every hope,’ Dillon said with confidence. ‘Shall we see how he fares?’

Passing down the aft ladderway to the lower deck, Kydd removed his hat to show his unofficial visiting status. Past the forward bulkhead of the boatswain’s cabin was the senior petty officers’ berth. An enclosed space decorated with mermaids and battle scenes, it was a snug and comfortable refuge in a frigate without the hulking great guns to share their being.

Dillon scratched on the canvas hanging and a head thrust out. ‘Yes, cully? Oh, it’s Mr Dillon. And the cap’n, b’ gob!’ The head abruptly disappeared and there were hoarse whispers inside before it poked out again.

‘Well, er, come in, sir. We’s just a-learnin’ young Tomkin his sea savvy, like.’

‘Er, who?’

‘As we gives him a purser’s name t’ put on the muster-roll. His own ain’t Christian, like.’

‘Šubić Tvrtkó,’ muttered Dillon, ‘who henceforth rejoices under the name “Tomkin Toughknot” as is now in the books, sir.’

Tomkin, Little Tom. It was a rough sailor’s compliment.

Further in, Stirk looked up, embarrassed, as he coiled the lanyards of a laid-out hammock. Beside him, eyes wide and shining, the youngster was doing the same with a miniature hammock half the size, but complete in all its fitments and with its lines immaculately pointed and grafted. ‘Needs to sling his mick like a good ’un, don’t he?’ he huffed.

‘Just so. Carry on, please.’

Kydd watched as Stirk deftly folded his canvas into the requisite precursor to a well-rolled hammock, to be secured with the seven turns of line said to be in respect for the seven seas.

‘You makee do?’ He indicated. The youngster nodded vigorously and after two tries succeeded.

‘Now yez finish the job, compree?’ After neat and dexterous work he had it done and dramatically flourished an iron ring. ‘Goes through here,’ Stirk said loudly, pointing. ‘An’ if it don’t, y’ starts again!’ When hammocks were piped up they had to be a standard fit for the nettings that lined the deckside where they acted as barricades against musket balls in action. A quartermaster with a hoop would be on hand to see that it was done properly.

It seemed that the universals of the sea profession could well overcome the absence of English. Little Tom was in good hands.

Kydd left the boy to it, protectively surrounded by a circle of gnarled senior petty officers. Was it right, though? He’d be leaving the ship before long and would then have no use for sea lore of any kind.

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