Kydd

CHAPTER 11

Really, old fellow, I was too busy to worry,” Renzi said. They were sitting astride the cro’jack yard, busy splicing.

“And I,” Kydd agreed, beginning the whipping around an eye splice. He made the turns as tight as he could – Bowyer had always said that you could tell a seaman by his ropework.

“Was it… hot work on deck?” he asked, in a noncommittal tone.

“Hot enough,” Renzi replied.

Kydd wanted to share his newfound secret with his friend. “Heard a good enough piece of philosophy not so long ago,” he began, and told Renzi of Stirk’s secret.

“Oh, yes,” Renzi said. “Same base truth in Julius Caesar: ‘Cowards die many times before their death / The valiant never taste of death but once.’ ” He finished his splice with a workmanlike tuck, testing its strength. “Act two, scene two, I’d hazard.” He saw Kydd’s expression. “But that is not to detract from the essential verities in both sayings,” he added hurriedly. “Perhaps one day we will sail to the Orient – I have a morbid desire to imbibe their metaphysics at the source.”

France was a dim gray coastline on the horizon as the three ships proceeded under easy sail, the tasks of repair never-ending. As the adrenaline of the battle fell away, and fatigue set in, it was hard to keep going, but it was double tides – working watch and watch without a break – to get the ships seaworthy and battleworthy once more.

A double tot of rum went far to ease the pain. Kydd felt detached from his aches, and spoke out loudly: “A great maulin’ – they outnumbered and outgunned us, but we saw ’em back to their stinking lair! A thunderin’ good drubbin’!”

“Do you think so?” Renzi said, without looking up.

“Why? Do you not? We’ve sent ’em back to where they came from – they won’t try it again.”

“My dear fellow, in the larger scheme of things, this will be seen as a passing brush with a few of their ships-of-the-line – and you are forgetting one thing.” Renzi stopped and looked at Kydd.

“What’s that?”

“Those four came from Douarnenez and now they are in Brest.”

“So?”

“So they have successfully concentrated their force. I don’t believe they were headed for the Caribbean anyway. It was always a move to bring about this very thing.”

Kydd remained silent.

“We did not bring the action to a conclusion, the enemy escaped us. Now there are nine of-the-line in Brest. They can sweep us aside and fall on our convoys and possessions at any time. I doubt if this afternoon will even be dignified as a battle.” Renzi resumed his whipping on the rope.

Kydd glared at him. “I need a bigger fid,” he said shortly, and disappeared over the edge of the mizzen top.

Renzi was right, of course – if he had stopped to think he would have come to the same conclusion. It was just that he was exhilarated by his first fight against the enemy. He had not found himself wanting: he had passed through horror and hardships and he was determined to revel in the feeling.

He stepped out of the mizzen shrouds onto the poop deck, and into the path of Midshipman Cantlow. “Well, now, the dam’ keen Mr. Kydd.” There was a drunken slur to the words and he slapped at his side with an old rattan.

Kydd said nothing, but stood impassive. The last thing he needed now was a run-in with the despised Cantlow.

“An’ I’ve just caught him skulking in the tops!”

Kydd snorted. Although a midshipman was not an officer, they equated to a petty officer in terms of discipline. The charge of hiding to avoid work was nonsense, of course – the boatswain himself had set them to their tasks. His jaw clamped shut as he forced himself to say nothing. Cantlow, if ever he got his promotion, would be of the same dangerous mold as Garrett.

“Say somethin’, then, damn your whistle!” Cantlow shouted.

Kydd knew better than to open his mouth while the midshipman was in this mood.

“You’re in contempt, you vile lubber! Contempt! I’ll teach you manners!” His rattan swept up and caught Kydd on his upraised arm.

Kydd threw up his other arm to protect his face, which seemed to enrage Cantlow. Slashing and whipping, he forced Kydd back to the bulwark, continuing the assault there mercilessly until he was forced to pause, panting.

Dangerously angry, Kydd glared at Cantlow. He remembered Cantlow’s witless shambling on the gundeck during the worst of the fight and suspected the real reason for the drinking.

“Afright now, are you, Mr. Keen Kydd! Then take this, you shy rogue!”

His arm lifted again, but before the blow landed Kydd snatched the rattan out of his grip and with one hand snapped it in two.

Cantlow stood aghast. His eyes widened and he backed away. “Master-at-Arms – sentry!” he yelled, his voice high and constricted.

The officer of the watch on the quarterdeck below appeared irritably, moving out from the break of the poop to see what all the fuss was about. It was Garrett.

The bilboes were situated down in the orlop, in the cockpit. They consisted of a long bar of iron on which leg irons were threaded and Kydd was the only occupant, his ankles clamped in the irons, sitting uncomfortably on the hard deck. He was shaking with fury, as much from Cantlow’s shameless toadying to Garrett as the lies the midshipman had told. He tried to turn over to take a new position but the irons would not budge. He swore helplessly.

Renzi could not visit him – the bilboes were outside the midshipmen’s berth among other things, and Cantlow would surely make certain that Renzi stood accused of plotting with Kydd.

The weak yellow light guttered and the marine sentry coughed and hacked endlessly. It would be a long night before Kydd could account for himself to the Captain in the morning.

“Right, mate, get to yer feet – ’tis yer time to explain yerself.” The ship’s corporal was not unkind, letting Kydd rub his ankles and stretch before moving off. They threaded their way to the main hatch, watched curiously as they passed.

Kydd felt the stares and lifted his chin. The Captain would see his part – Bowyer had taught him that the King’s Service was hard, but in the end fair, which was more than could be said for justice ashore. He marched forward confidently.

They emerged from the main companionway onto the quarterdeck. Kydd, bleary-eyed and disheveled after a sleepless night, was taken by surprise at the scene. Every eye was on him: hands had been mustered aft in the usual fashion, marines lining the poop rail, the officers below. A space of deck lay between him and a sea of men facing him from the opposite direction.

Tyrell looked at him dispassionately as he was brought forward to where Caldwell stood behind his lectern.

“Orf hat!” the Master-at-Arms said. “Ordinary Seaman Kydd, sir, did use threatenin’ language to a superior orficer, sir, did offer violence to the orficer and did use insultin’ words, sir.” He stepped back.

Kydd looked up into his captain’s eyes. The same intelligent and gentle blue eyes – but there was weakness in the downswept lines at the side.

“These are serious charges, Kydd,” Caldwell began mildly. He glanced at Cantlow and back. “I hope they will not be proven.”

“No, sir,” Kydd replied firmly.

“Silence!” the Master-at-Arms roared.

Kydd snatched a side-glance at Cantlow. He was in his best uniform and rested his hand on his dirk. His face was expressionless. Close behind stood Garrett.

“Are there any witnesses?” Caldwell asked.

“Sir!” snapped Garrett, and stepped over to the Captain’s side, facing Kydd. “I saw it all, the rogue.”

“What did you see?” Caldwell enquired gently.

“That rascal – that villain – ”

“Have a care, Mr. Garrett.”

“I saw him ranting at Mr. Cantlow after being remonstrated with for skulking in the tops.”

“And?”

“And Kydd seized Mr. Cantlow’s rattan and offered to ‘fetch him a polter on his noggin,’ begging your pardon, sir.”

“Ah.”

“That is not all, sir. I snatched the rattan from Kydd and broke it over my knee, at which he let fly with a stream of insults, which I will not trouble you to repeat.”

A murmuring spread out over the crowded mass of seamen.

“I see.” Caldwell looked at Kydd for a long moment, then turned back to Garrett. “It seems fairly clear to me…” he said.

Garrett could not help a quick look of triumph at Cantlow.

“… that you yourself, sir, stand guilty of the gravest dereliction of duty!”

Garrett was stupefied.

“Were you not officer of the watch? Speak up, man!”

“Yes, sir!”

“Then why, pray, were you absent from your place of duty on the quarterdeck, and at the mizzen shrouds on the poop, when the safety of this ship depends on your vigilance and proximity to the helm? Hey, sir? Which is it, man? You saw it all and were absent from your place of duty, or you didn’t see it at all? Well? You are stood down, and will wait upon me later to explain your actions.” Caldwell drew a scented handkerchief from his sleeve and touched his mouth. “I will therefore ignore this testimony and call Mr. Cantlow.” Cantlow stepped up and touched his hat. “It is customary to remove your headgear when addressing your captain, Mr. Cantlow. I find merely touching the hat an irritating modern affectation.”

Cantlow flushed and took off his hat.

“Now, sir, what are the essentials of the charge?”

Cantlow’s eyes slid over to Kydd and back. “I caught this man skulking in the mizzen top, sir, and – ”

“One moment. Let us settle that matter first.”

“Pass the word for the boatswain!”

The cry was taken up and, as if on cue, the burly figure of the boatswain appeared. He did not look at Kydd.

“What was this man doing in the mizzen top?” Caldwell enquired.

“Sir, Ordinary Seaman Kydd was, agreeable to my orders, engaged in puttin’ an eye in the mizzen topsail slabline, afore it’s meant to be rereeved,” he growled.

“Thank you. Mr. Cantlow?”

Cantlow hesitated, then blurted, “He wouldn’t speak!”

Caldwell’s eyebrows rose.

“Er, sir! He-he just stood there in dumb insolence. What was I to think, sir?”

“I would have thought that was obvious, but we’ll let it go. The insults, if he didn’t speak?” Caldwell began tapping his feet.

Cantlow’s eyes fell. They rose again obstinately. “I have a witness, sir.”

A ripple of disquiet spread through the men. Kydd sensed their presence behind him and was comforted – Bowyer had been right: if you were innocent you had nothing to fear.

“Oh?”

“Able Seaman Jeakes, sir.”

“Pass the word for Jeakes.”

A gangling black man pushed his way diffidently forward, his old canvas hat passing from hand to hand nervously.

“What can you say about this, Jeakes?”

The eyes in the dark features flashed white in anxiety.

“Take your time, Jeakes. We want to know the truth,” Caldwell said kindly, glancing at Cantlow’s stubborn face.

“Well, sir, it’s like this ’ere, sir. I wuz shinnin’ down from the maintop ’n’ I sees Mr. Cantlow and Kydd, sir.”

“You mean, you could see them from the main shrouds to the poop deck?”

“Well, see, we was sailin’ full ’n’ bye on the starb’d tack, sir. I could see down at ’em, like.”

“What did you see?”

“Mr. Cantlow, sir, he was quiltin’ the very ’ell outa Kydd, sir. Layin’ into ’im wiv a will, he wuz, sir.”

“I see,” said Caldwell, looking sharply at Cantlow. “And then?”

“Well, sir, he stops, sir.”

“Yes?”

Jeakes looked over his shoulder at the silent mass of men. If he told Julian Stockwin the whole story and it went ill for Kydd, they would take it out on him. But if he lied Cantlow might get another witness and he would find himself next to Kydd. “He stops, sir,” he said unhappily.

“Speak up!” the Master-at-Arms said angrily.

“And then ’e ’as a go at Kydd again, sir,” he added.

“Get on with it!” the Master-at-Arms spluttered.

“And Kydd grabs ’is rattan.” The stirring among the men stopped.

“’N’ then ’e breaks it, like!” The words fell into a heavy silence.

“Sir – in front of the men, sir! It’s intolerable!” Cantlow said, incensed.

“Be silent!” the Captain said. There was the rub – Kydd might have been provoked, he might have been an innocent outraged, but he had been seen in front of others to have held his superior in contempt.

“Do you not feel that Kydd may have acted hastily? Remember, he has only been in the King’s Service a short while.”

“No, sir, it was a deliberate act of contempt,” Cantlow said stubbornly.

“Then consider the consequences of your position, sir. You are perhaps bringing down punishment on one of the most promising seamen I have ever seen for what, I am sorry to say, seems like personal vengeance. I ask you again, can you not conceive – ”

Cantlow missed the significance of the emphasized “I” and broke in sullenly, “It’s a matter of discipline – sir!”

Tyrell leaned over. “No choice, sir, in front of witnesses. Kydd’s guilty, and if – ”

“I know my duty, Mr. Tyrell,” Caldwell said testily.

He looked over Kydd’s shoulder, avoiding his eye. “Articles of War,” he ordered.

Kydd went cold.

The words of the relevant article rang out. It was a nightmare.

“Seize him up!”

It couldn’t be happening – his world spun around him. The boatswain’s mates stepped forward and waited. Kydd started and realized that they were waiting for him to strip. He slowly tore off his shirt, still smeared with the gray of powder smoke.

He let it fall and turned to look back at Caldwell, but the mild blue eyes were looking out to seaward.

“Twelve lashes,” the Captain said, distantly.

The boatswain’s mates seized hold of Kydd and dragged him to the grating. One held his arms spreadeagled while the other passed spun yarn around his thumbs.

His head twisted to the other side – Cantlow stood relaxed and, as Kydd looked at him, his head lifted and a slight smile appeared.

Out of sight the drum thundered away – and stopped. He knew what this meant and braced himself.

He heard the deadly hissing and the blow fell.

It was of shocking force and he felt as if his torso had been plunged into ice. Then came the pain. So murderous was it that it forced a desperate intake of breath before the scream, which Kydd forced to a hoarse grunt.

The sound of the drums floated into his consciousness, which began to retreat.

Again the drums ceased. He writhed at his bonds as the blows slammed him into the grating and the intolerable slash of pain cleaved deep inside. It was inhuman – he bit his lips and tasted the warm blood trickling down.

The agony continued. One part of him begged for release, anything that would halt the torture, but by far the larger part was of consuming fury, a blind rage – not so much at Cantlow and the injustice of it all, but in the betrayal by his adopted world.

The torment went on and on, the monotonous count, the fearful lashing.

Suddenly it was over. Kydd was dimly aware that he was hanging from the gratings and there was a sawing at the lashings. Unable to move, his vision whirling, he felt himself lowered to the deck, his back a roiling bed of unendurable pain. His arms were held, and Renzi’s agonized face swam into view. “Whoresons!” Kydd said thickly. He didn’t hear any reply, for at that moment his mind ceased to take any further interest in the world.

Renzi wrung out the rag, dipped it into clean water and dabbed at the frightful mess of purple and black that was Kydd’s back. He was deeply worried – not about Kydd’s physical condition, which after a few days was already showing signs of healthy healing, but at his brooding silence. Kydd went about his work sullenly, stiff with pain, and responded in monosyllables when talked to. Even Renzi was given short shrift. Now he sat on the chest, his back bowed.

“I am sanguine it will heal within the week,” Renzi said.

Kydd grunted.

“You will forget all about it in – ”

“No!”

Renzi stopped dabbing. “There’s nothing you can do about it. You may as well – ”

“I know exactly what I’m goin’ to do about it.”

“May I know what it is you propose?”

Kydd hesitated. “No.”

“Very well. I’m sure you intend no fatal mischief for the sake only of immediate satisfaction.”

“I know what I’m doing, if that’s what you mean.” The grim set of his face worried Renzi. He finished the job and reluctantly left Kydd alone.

“So all it takes is a few fuckin’ stripes to get you thinking.” Kydd looked up. It was Stallard.

“Bollocks!” Kydd said weakly.

“Just thought I’d give you the word, brother. There’s a meeting tonight for all them that have had a gutful of this and fucking well want to do something about it.” He waited.

“Where?” Kydd said, without thinking.

Stallard smiled. “Cable tiers, starb’d side, last dog-watch.”

He looked around and leaned forward. “Password, ‘freedom or death,’ ” he mouthed dramatically.

It was no part of Kydd’s plans to plot mutiny, but the way he was feeling, there would be no harm in seeing what was in the wind.

Turning aft from the fore hatch, Kydd saw that the orlop was in its usual darkness amidships, the area between the surgeon, purser and others aft, and the carpenter and boatswain with their stores forward.

His senses on full alert, he padded down the walkway until he was abreast the starboard cable tier. The anchor cable had long since dried and the thick rope was ranged out in long coils, one on the other nearly to the low deckhead.

He wondered what to do next, when noiselessly a dark figure appeared in front of him. He sensed another behind. “What’s the word?” the first whispered urgently.

“Freedom or death,” Kydd said quickly.

The figures relaxed, signaling him to clamber up.

Inside there was ample room for the dozen or so men it contained. Kydd’s nose wrinkled at the acrid seaweed and mud smell. A single shaded purser’s dip was the only illumination.

“Meeting comes to order,” Stallard whispered. He was the one with the light.

The others leaned forward over it to hear. With a start Kydd recognized one. It was Bull Lynch, from his own gun crew. Lynch stared back.

“First thing, meet Brother Kydd, who’s joining us.”

Heads nodded cautiously. Kydd’s dull anger now turned to apprehension. It was untrue that he was joining, but now he would be considered part of anything that was decided.

“Now, brothers, to business.” Stallard had the easy authority of the rabble-rouser. “We have to face it, friends, we ain’t had a chance to do anything much lately, it being so busy, like.” He glanced at each of them. “Until now! Brother Kydd is a townie, comes from my part o’ the country, and I trust him. Got a headpiece, has Tom, and the two of us are going to work on a plan o’ mine that’s going to shake the buggers up somethin’ cruel.” He paused. “Been workin’ on this plan for a long while, and even if I say it, it’s a good ’un. We gets shot o’ this life, and at the same time we gets set up with a purse full o’ guineas – every man jack of us!”

The men stirred restlessly, darting uncomfortable glances at each other.

Lynch looked scornful. “Tell us yer great plan, then,” he hissed.

Stallard looked resentfully at Lynch. “Brother Bull, I spent a lot o’ time at me plan, please be s’ good as to hear me out. What we needs is a plan what sees us safe from the law afterward, an’ sets us up at the same time so’s we don’t need to go beggin’. I have that plan, an’ it’s guaranteed.” He stared Lynch down and continued. “Now, listen to this. Hear the whole plan first afore yer makes comment, brothers.

“The night we makes our move – Johnny Hawbuck always comes up for a sniff o’ air on deck before he turns in, has a gab with the officer who’s got the deck. Gets very dark it does, that hour, so in one easy move we tips ’em both a thwack on the bonce with one o’ them belayin’ pins and it’s overside for ’ em both. Meanwhile, I gets to settle with Tyrell in his cabin; I got personal reasons to do this job. But then the beautiful bit-we beats t’ quarters, everyone thinks we’ve seen the French up close but instead all we does is seize the boardin’ weapons, as many as we want, all ready for us! This is how we, the h’oppressed slaves, can finally win our freedom. With eight hundred of us under arms we outnumber the bastards ten to one. No one can tell me we can’t win – and that’s why I needs you ’n’ Brother Kydd to help organize ’em all.”

There was dead silence.

“Now, you say, what next? Well, we has the ship. This here is a valuable property, is a ship-o’-the-line, and there’s nations what’ll pay bags o’ gold for a line-of-battle ship. Not the enemy! No, we don’t consider that, we’re patriots, we are. No – we sell to a nation that ain’t got one of its own, but is growin’ big enough to want one. The United States of Ameriky!”

There were indrawn breaths.

“What about th’ officers?” came a deep voice.

“Well, now, we gives ’em a fair trial, they has to answer for their conduct, that sorta thing. And then we tops ’em.”

There was a long silence.

“Well – what d’ye think?” Stallard said impatiently.

Kydd was lost in horror, but he could find no immediate glaring flaw that would show it for the madness it was. It seemed he was caught up in a nightmare sweeping him to disaster.

Lynch was the first to move. “Never heard such a lot of cock shit in all me life.”

His whisper shocked Stallard, who seemed to lose control. He grabbed Lynch by the shirt and choked out, “You fool! Here’s a chance for you to do somethin’, to make somethin’ of yourself, and you won’t fuckin’ do anything. You’re a sad dog, Bull, you’ll never – ”

Lynch stood up. “I’m gettin’ outa here, I’ve a gutful o’ your pratin’, Stallard.” He turned to go.

“No, you don’t, Lynch. Brothers, stop him!”

The others hung back, worried and uncertain. The bull-like figure of Lynch waited, then his lips curled. “Seems yer’ve lost it, Stallard.”

“You bastard! You yellow bastard!” Stallard breathed, and slid out his knife. Lynch’s eyes opened wide, then he brought out his own.

The men fell back – the light was placed on deck, its guttering luminance now unchecked, playing fitfully on the scene.

Stallard circled warily. He held the knife like a dagger, point down, but Lynch held his across his palm low down and with the point slightly upward, following the line of his thumb. He tracked Stallard’s movements without moving from where he stood.

It ended quickly. Stallard leaped forward, raising his knife for a sudden strike. Lynch picked up the signal and like a snake his arm extended. The blade gleamed and buried itself in Stallard’s ribs.

With an astonished gasp, Stallard fell on his knees, staring at the wound from which scarlet was already pulsing.

Without expression, Lynch returned the knife to its sheath and began climbing out. There was a mad scramble as the others fought to distance themselves from the scene, for whoever was left would surely be blamed. Already someone might be coming, attracted by the noise of the scuffle.

Kydd needed no prompting and made to follow them up and over the cable, but felt his feet impeded.

It was Stallard. “Kydd, help! For fuck’s sake, please help me. I’ve been stuck – bad.”

Kydd hesitated.

“Tom – please! Don’t leave me, for Chrissake!” Stallard coughed weakly, bringing up a copious amount of blood.

He collapsed on the deck, his strength visibly draining from him. “Don’t leave me, Tom, please don’ leave me to die – I can’t die!” His voice became unsteady and the coughing turned into bloody spasms. He reached weakly for Kydd. “Please don’ leave me alone, please, I beg of you. For the love o’ God, stay!”

Kydd saw the anguished, terror-ridden eyes. If he left now he could not live with the guilt. “I won’t leave.”

Another coughing fit racked the dying man. Kydd held him while it passed, careful to avoid the blood. Stallard’s eyes rolled and he started a maundering diatribe.

Outside a walkway deckboard creaked. Kydd clapped his hand over Stallard’s mouth. Stallard struggled awhile, then subsided. Another sound came distinctly.

Kydd held his breath. There were footsteps coming from forward, the direction of the boatswain’s cabin, and they came hesitantly. Stallard gave a spasm and moaned under Kydd’s hand, which he clamped tighter.

The footsteps stopped outside. Scrabbling noises sounded on the outside of the cable. Kydd stared up at the rim of the coil. Stallard fell silent.

Renzi’s face peered over the edge. “Tom?”

Kydd slumped, ashen with relief. He released Stallard, but the man’s head flopped back, his eyes staring open. He had been suffocated – and Kydd had killed him.

Kydd had taken the manner of Stallard’s death hard. “Nicholas?”

Renzi paused in bathing his friend’s healing back. “Yes?”

Kydd looked away. “I’m goin’ to run,” he said.

Renzi couldn’t believe it. Desertion could mean death – the majestic and brutal ceremony of being “flogged around the Fleet,” three hundred lashes on the cruel triangle set up in the boat, which few survived.

It was madness – and where could he desert to, here at sea, a dozen leagues off the French coast? Kydd had been unhinged by his experience, that was clear.

“I plan to be quit o’ the Navy within this sennight,” Kydd said, in a low voice. He looked up – there was only desolation in his eyes. “I’ll need help.”

“Of course, dear fellow.” Renzi felt a hundred questions crowding in – but before them all was the dawning devastation that he had lost his true friend, the only one he felt able to confide in. As a last service he would help Kydd the best way he could – help them to part, almost certainly forever. A lump began to form in his throat, for he knew that it was the end either way – Kydd would get away or he would be seized for punishment.

Kydd held out his hand. “I knew you would, my – dear friend.” Renzi gripped and held it.

Renzi slipped away quietly from the group of men in the waist. Those on deck now in the graveyard hours of the middle watch had little to do. The darkness was relieved by the cool glitter of a quarter moon and as he climbed the ladder to the fo’c’sle it was easy to make out Kydd’s lonely figure.

“Nicholas,” Kydd mumbled. He was fo’c’sle lookout, a concession to his still painful wounds.

They were quite alone. For a while they stood together, watching the endless moon-silvered waves march toward them from ahead, a hypnotic sight, the continuous lifting and soft crunching of the bow spreading white foam on each side to mark their passage.

“A pleasing scene,” Renzi ventured.

“Yes.”

Kydd’s wounds were healing, and he was able to wear his blue-striped shirt. An occasional cracking in the skin called for more goose grease, but soon he would be as fit as ever. The scar, however, he would carry for the rest of his life.

“You have your plans made now, I believe.”

Kydd was silent for a space. “Yes, I have.”

Renzi waited.

“I spoke t’ Dick Whaley.”

“And?”

“He said that every merchant ship has a hidey hole in the lower hold where they stow their best men from the press-gang, should they board. The powder brig will be with us very soon to replace our powder and shot. I will be aboard her when she returns to England.”

Renzi’s heart went cold. There would be no turning back.

“Nicholas – I have no right to ask it – ” The moonlight cast deep shadows on Kydd’s face.

“Ask, you looby.”

“I will need to sweeten the brig crew, you know, to – ”

“I understand. You shall have it.” He thought of the guineas sewn in his second waistcoat. Kydd would need them all to sustain him for whatever lay ahead.

“Thank you. I – we might meet again somewhere, y’ never know, in this poxy world.”

Two days later the brig arrived. It was a boisterous day and, as she lay alongside, an irritable boatswain had to rig, in addition to the main yard tackle, a stay end quarter tackle on fore and main to steady the big barrels as they were swayed aboard. It was not difficult to arrange assignments to the working party in the brig – most sailors had a reluctance to be in such proximity to tons of gunpowder.

At the noon meal break Kydd feigned fatigue, curling up in a corner as though stealing a nap. The brig’s crew looked at him curiously, then later invited him to share their victuals.

The Judith and Mary of Bristol was on charter to the Navy, a small, rotund but seaworthy vessel that had done the trip several times before. The crew quarters right in the eyes of the ship were tiny, but the men on each side of the table tucked into their meal with gusto. There was small beer to follow and Kydd drank it thirstily – it was no more than a few days old and was fresh and soft. He listened to the talk that followed. The Judith had reached her rendezvous late because she had sailed well out into the Atlantic to avoid any privateers at the entrance to the Channel. She was to supply Duke William and return to Devonport to de-store before going to Bristol for refit.

Kydd tried to hide his excitement – Bristol had no significant naval presence that he knew of. He took a deep breath. “Thanks for the scran. Might be I can return the favor.”

The nuggety seaman opposite grinned. “No need fer that at all, boyo!” he said, in a pleasant Welsh borders lilt.

“No – what I mean is, there’s maybe a bit o’ gold in it f’r you.”

The seamen looked at each other.

“How so, lad?”

For answer, Kydd stood up and, fixing them with blazing eyes, tore off his shirt to reveal the half-healed wounds, livid purple weals, some still weeping in places. “There’s ten guineas in it for you if I’m aboard when you sail,” he growled.

“An’ a berth in a King’s ship for us all if yer found,” another seaman muttered.

“What do y’ say?”

At first there was no response, and Kydd feared the worst.

Then the dark nuggety seaman stood up. “Name’s Finchett – Billy to you. Welcome aboard the Judith!”

Giddy with relief, Kydd sat down.

“We has a little, who shall say, accommodation in the hold we useta make our own before, when the press-gang’s out abroad. Ye’ll be safe enough there, boyo.” His palm came out, apologetically. “We needs to make other arrangements, you’ll unnerstand.”

The guineas chinked solemnly into the silence.

After the break, Kydd returned to the hold for work. Duke William required only half of Judith’s cargo of powder and soon they would cease their labor and return aboard.

Finchett clambered about over the top of the cargo as though checking their stowage.

There was much more light in the hold than there was on the old Duke William, but even so, there were dark recesses in the corners.

“Here you are, Tom,” Renzi whispered. He had noiselessly appeared at Kydd’s elbow with a shapeless piece of jute sacking. “Your gear – take it.”

Kydd grasped it, touched by his friend’s thoughtfulness.

“Last barrel, you men!” called down the boatswain.

Finchett gave Kydd a significant look and sauntered over to the after corner. Kydd followed, looking up through the hatch as though waiting for the can-hook to come plunging down again. His heart hammered. It was not too late to abandon the unknown, return to the warmth and safety of his mess – and his friends.

A bulky water barrel rested in the dark outer end of the lower hold. It had an old strop and toggle lying around it, and it looked just like the other sea stores. Finchett slipped the toggle and took the after chine in his fingers.

Checking around carefully, he lifted – the barrel split in two length-ways, hinging at the forward end. He let it fall again. “Get in when yer hears me shout ’n’ don’t come out till you hears a knock, two times two.”

Kydd wiped his clammy hands on his trousers and looked back. Renzi had come over to see the arrangement and now stood quietly.

“It seems that this is goodbye, my good friend,” Kydd whispered.

There was no answer. Renzi’s face was away from the dull light and it was difficult to read his expression.

From the opposite corner of the hold came the loud splintering of wood. “What the hell are youse doing, yer useless lubbers?” came Finchett’s shout. “Call yerselves seamen? I’ve seen better sailors in Mother Jones’s barnyard!”

Kydd gulped. A quick glance back at Renzi and he had the barrel top lifting. There was no time to lose. His heart thudding, he climbed in and began lowering the top half over him.

“Tom – ” Renzi’s voice was hoarse, unnatural.

Kydd hesitated.

“I – I’m coming with you!”

Mind racing, Kydd crouched down – and immediately felt an opening in the end of the barrel. In the dimness he made out that the opening communicated with the rest of the ship aft in some way. On hands and knees he crawled through.

He looked back to see the figure of Renzi dropping in, and the barrel lid closing. It was now totally black.

Almost immediately there was a scrabble of sound outside as someone secured the strop, and then quiet. Whatever else, the minimum they could expect was a flogging for attempting to desert – Renzi was now as guilty as he.

Renzi must have found the opening too, for his elbows caught Kydd in the side.

“I really do beg your pardon,” he murmured, and wriggled aside.

Kydd felt a rise of panic as claustrophobia threatened. He could feel deep frames as they crossed and curved away upward, a flat decking pressed down close above. They must be at the very lowest point of the vessel, where the rise of the keel led to the transom and rudder pintle. There would be rats and cockroaches crawling unseen among them in the dark.

The smell was bad, but less so than Duke William’s nauseous depths. It was very close and stuffy and Kydd panted in anticipation of the air expiring.

“I must be demented! Utterly bereft of my senses!” came Renzi’s voice.

The motion was not helpful – the swash and hiss of waves above them was quite audible, and the little brig’s liveliness was unsettling after the battleship’s grand movements. Kydd lay full length, trying to relax. The jerk and wallow of the vessel was trying and he needed to brace himself against the hard beams. Time passed. He knew that they were still alongside from the irregular thumps as they bumped the bulbous sides of Duke William.

Muffled shouts penetrated. They were repeated, and knocks were heard, approaching from forward. Kydd guessed that a search was under way. The knocks came closer and he stopped breathing.

Kydd jumped at a vicious banging on their special cask. It stopped, but a shouted exchange then started. The words could not be made out but Kydd thought that he recognized Elkins’s voice. He cringed – there would be no mercy from Elkins.

More shouts, answered distantly. Elkins was not moving on – he was a valued member of the boarding party for pressing in merchant ships because he knew all the tricks. They were trapped. The shouts became impatient. The distant voice answered shortly – but with a final banging it was over. Not daring to move, Kydd lay waiting. There were more isolated shouts, but they were moving away. Soon they died away and the two of them were left alone. The impossible seemed to have happened – and when finally the unruly bumping settled into a steady surge his heart leaped. They were under way, bound for freedom, and his life as a seaman in a man-o’-war was over.

It was almost an anticlimax. Without a doubt, for the rest of his life he was a marked man. The desertion was now actual, and even though he had been in the Navy only a few months, his name would be in a book somewhere, and all the dire penalties would fall due if he was discovered. It was a miserable situation.

He had given no thought to what he would do now. He could not return home, which implied survival elsewhere, but where? In wartime there was little call for a wig-maker, and his newfound skills as a sailor could find employment now only in the merchant marine, and there he would be in constant fear of the press-gang and someone recognizing him.

He would have to go somewhere like the colonies. His loyal heart would not allow him to go to the infant United States and he had heard that the new settlements in Botany Bay were in grave difficulties – no place for a fugitive.

The enormity of what he had done pressed in. He remembered Bowyer’s face with its slow smile as he gently put Kydd right about some seafaring matter, and felt demeaned, dirty and criminal.

A double knock was followed by another, and the barrel top lifted. Thankfully they scrambled out. “Two of yez!” Finchett said, in mock astonishment. “Well, yer both come up on deck ’n’ take your last sightin’ o’ Duke William!”

Cautiously they looked out from the hatchway, Judith’s low bulwarks making it inadvisable to show themselves on deck.

A mile or so off, Duke William was heading away from them, leaning into the stiffening breeze. With her yards braced up sharp, the big threedecker looked a picture of careless strength. And with her she carried Kydd’s friends: Doggo, Dick Whaley – Ned Doud, of course, not forgetting Pinto and Wong. Kydd’s eyes pricked, and glistened. Renzi touched his arm, but he still stared over the sea to the old ship-of-the-line. He gazed after her until first her hull sank beneath the curve of the horizon, then her topsails, lit redly by the setting sun, and finally, almost too distant to see, her royals. Then the sea was empty.

They sat together on the foredeck of Judith – the skipper had insisted they work their passage, and in the morning sunshine they were set to work seaming a threadbare foresail.

The brig met the seas in exuberant fashion, for she sailed up the long blue swells and down the other side instead of arrogantly shouldering them aside. The occasional breakers served to discommode, bullying her off course unmercifully.

The lighter spars and rigging seemed toy-like after those of a man-o’war but the freeboard of only a few feet gave an exhilarating closeness to the rush and hiss of the sea.

“Tom, dear fellow,” said Renzi.

Kydd had been quiet and introspective since their desertion, but had been respectful and considerate in their exchanges.

“Tom, we must give thought to our future.” Renzi’s impulsive act had changed his own circumstances fatally. Now there was no question of seeing through the high-minded redemption he had undertaken: neither could he return to his family with his tail between his legs. In truth he had no idea what to do.

“Th’ colonies?” said Kydd, looking up with troubled eyes.

“A possibility.” Renzi’s half-brother was in Canada and after his infrequent return visits Renzi had no illusions about the raw, half-civilized frontier life of the new continent.

“A foreign land, then?”

Renzi hid a smile. He knew that Kydd, like others of his kind, had only the haziest notion of the outside world. “Again, a possibility,” he answered. “We must consider carefully, of course.” With half the world at war and revolutionary disaffection rampant in the other, it would be a deadly gamble to find which of them, old world or new, would prove a reliable hiding place.

He returned to his palm and needle. They had but a few more days to make a decision before landfall in England, and then it would have to be final. For the first time Renzi felt that events were slipping out of his control and his options were being extinguished, one by one.