The mess-tables were rigged and the usual warm conviviality of a meal-time, enlivened by rum, rose noisily from the tables between the rows of guns. A few curious looks came his way, but in the main seamen were more interested in the gossip of the day and he was ignored.
Methodically, he removed his cocked hat. Then he took off his lieutenant’s uniform coat and laid it carefully over his arm. By this time he had the attention of the nearest, who looked at him in astonishment.
He paced forward slowly, and with terrible deliberation. One by one the tables lapsed into an amazed silence, which grew and spread until the whole gun-deck fell into an unnatural quiet and men craned forward for a better view.
Kydd continued his walk, his face set and grim, eyes fixed forward in an unblinking stare. He was either right to trust – or he had lost everything. He passed the great jeer capstan, the mighty trunk of the mainmast, the main hatch gratings, his measured tread now sounding clear and solemn.
He halted abreast the fore capstan, his eyes still fixed forward. Slowly his gaze turned to one side: Dobbie sat, transfixed, at the mess by number-five gun. Kydd marched over. Not a man moved. He held Dobbie with his eyes, dropping his words into the silence. ‘I’ll be waiting for ye – the Mizzen tavern. At two, tomorrow.’ Then he wheeled about and began the long walk back down the silent gun-deck.
In the privacy of his cabin Kydd buried his face in his hands. As an officer there was no question of how to deal with a slur on one’s honour: a duel was the inevitable result. Dobbie was not a gentleman, therefore Kydd could not demean himself in calling him out. But this was a matter for the lower-deck: different rules applied. By now the news would be already around the ship. It was too late for him to back away – and also for Dobbie.
Dobbie was big and a bruiser, well used to a mill. Kydd could take care of himself, but this was another matter. Of a surety he would be the loser, in all probability suffering a battering and disfiguring injury. But the result would be worth it. Never more would any man question his honour or integrity: Dobbie’s word would be hollow against that of a man who had set aside the power and privileges that were his by right to defend his honour in the traditional way.
Kydd had no fear of it coming to the ear of the captain – or any other officer, for that matter. It would be common currency on the mess-decks and every seaman and petty officer would know of it, but it was their business and, as with so many other things, the quarterdeck never would hear of it.
He slept well: there was little to be gained in brooding on hypothetical events of the next day and in any case there was nothing he could do about it now that events had been set in train.
As he moved about the ship there were surreptitious looks, curious stares and a few morbid chuckles. He went below to find his servant. ‘Er, Tysoe, there is something of a service I want you t’ do for me.’
‘Sir, don’t do it, sir, please, I beg,’ Tysoe said, with a low, troubled voice. ‘You’re a gentleman, sir, you don’t have to go mixing with those villains.’
‘I have to, an’ that’s an end to it.’
Tysoe hesitated, then asked unhappily, ‘The service, sir?’
‘Ah – I want you to find a fo’c’sle hand who c’n lend me a seaman’s rig f’r this afternoon. Er, it’ll be cleaned up after.’
‘Sir.’ But Tysoe did not leave, disconsolately shuffling his feet. ‘Sir, I’m coming with you.’
‘No.’ Kydd feared he would be instantly discovered and probably roughed up: he could not allow it. ‘No, but I thank ye for your concern.’
There was a fitful cold drizzle when Kydd stepped into the boat, which gave him an excuse to wear a concealing oilskin. Poulden was stroke; he had gruffly volunteered to see Kydd through to the Mizzen tavern, but made determined efforts not to catch his eye as he pulled strongly at his oar.
They landed at King’s Slip. Without a word, Kydd and Poulden stepped out and the boat shoved off. The waterfront was seething with activity and they pushed through firmly to Water Street.
It was lined with crude shanties and pot-houses; raw weathered timbers abuzz with noise, sailors and women coming and going, the stink of old liquor and humanity in the air. A larger hostelry sported a miniature mast complete with upper yards, jutting out from a balcony. ‘The Fore, sir,’ said Poulden, self-consciously. ‘We has three inns; the Fore, the Main, ’n’ the Mizzen, which, beggin’ yer pardon, we understands t’ be respectively the wildest, gayest an’ lowest in Halifax.’ Hoisted on the Fore’s mast was the sign of a red cockerel, a broad hint to the illiterate of the pleasures within.
Kydd’s heart thudded, but he was angry with Dobbie – not so much for trying such a scheme but for the slur on Kydd’s character. His anger focused: whatever the outcome of the next few hours he would see to it that he left marks on Dobbie.
They swung down a side-street to see a crowd of jostling men outside an entrance with a small mizzen mast. ‘Sir, gotta leave ye now.’ Poulden returned the way he came, leaving Kydd on his own. His mouth dried. Screeches of female laughter and roars of appreciation at some unseen drunken feat filled the air. As a young seaman he’d been in places like this, but he had forgotten how wild and lawless they were.
‘There he is! Told yer so!’ Heads turned and Kydd was engulfed with a human tide that jollied him inside, all red faces and happy anticipation. A black-leather can was shoved at him, its contents spilling down his front. ‘No, thank ye,’ he said quickly, thrusting it away.
Women on the stairs looked at him with frank curiosity, some with quickening interest at his strong, good looks. A hard-featured seaman and two others tried to push through. ‘Gangway, y’ scrovy bastards, an’ let a man see who it is then,’ he grumbled.
‘Akins, Master o’ the Ring. I have t’ ask, are ye Lootenant Kydd an’ no other?’ The taphouse broke into excited expectancy at Kydd’s reply. He recognised both of the others: Dean, boatswain’s mate of Tenacious, standing with brutal anticipation, and Laffin, petty officer of the afterguard, wearing a pitying expression. There were others from Tenacious, their images barely registering on Kydd’s preternaturally concentrated senses.
‘Are ye willing t’ stand agin Bill Dobbie, L’tenant, the fight t’ be fair ’n’ square accordin’ t’ the rules?’ There was a breathy silence. Bare-knuckle fighting was brutal and hard, but there were rules – the Marquess of Queensberry had brought some kind of order to the bloody business.
‘Aye, I’m willing.’
The pothouse erupted. ‘Fight’s on, begob, an’ me bung’s on Dobbie.’
This was going to be a legendary match to be talked of for years. The crush was stifling, but Laffin cleared the way with his fists and they passed through the damp sawdust and sweaty, shoving humanity to the sudden cool of the outside air. It was a small inner courtyard with rickety weathered buildings on all four sides. In the centre, sitting on a standard seaman’s chest, was Dobbie.
Kydd stopped as the significance of the chest crowded in on him. This was not going to be a fight according to Queensberry’s rules: this was a traditional way of the lower deck to settle the worst of grudges – across a sea-chest. They would sit facing each other over its length, lashed in place, to batter at each other until one yielded or dropped senseless.
To back away now was impossible. He had to go through with it. He took in Dobbie’s deep chest and corded arms. His fists were massive and strapped up with darkened, well-used leather. There was no doubt that Kydd was in for heavy punishment.
The men and women in the courtyard were shouting obscene encouragement to Dobbie, urging him to take it out on an officer while he had the chance. A hoot of laughter started up at the back of the crowd and Kydd’s servant was propelled to the front.
‘Tysoe!’
‘Sir, sir—’ He had a bundle clutched to his chest, and his frightened eyes caught Kydd’s. ‘I came, sir, I – I came—’
‘He’s come t’ drag Tom Cutlass home after, like,’ chortled Dean. It was the fir
st Kydd had heard of any lower-deck nickname – from the desperate time fighting in the boat when his sword had broken and he had taken up a familiar cutlass. Strangely, it strengthened his resolve.
‘Don’t worry, Tysoe, I’ll see ye right!’ Kydd said forcefully, above the crowd.
The laughter died as the men sensed the time had come. Kydd looked directly at Dobbie, who returned the look with a glittering-eyed malignity. ‘Get on wi’ it, yer sluggards!’ screamed one woman, her cries taken up by the baying circle of men. Scowling, Akins turned to Kydd. ‘Get y’r gear off, then, mate.’
Kydd pulled off his shirt, feeling the icy cold wind playing on his bare torso. There was a stir of amazed comment as the stretched and distorted scars criss-crossing his back were recognised for what they were: a relic of the long-ago agony of lashes from a cat-o’-nine-tails at a grating. The women’s screeches diminished and the crowd subsided.
Laffin produced cords and Kydd took his place at the other end of the chest, feeling the feral impact of Dobbie’s presence, his heart racing at the carnage about to be wrought. The ropes cut into his legs, but his eyes rose to lock on Dobbie’s.
‘Are ye ready, gemmun?’ Akins had no watch, no tools of a referee – this was going to be a smashing match. A thin, cold rain began, chilling Kydd’s skin and running into his eyes, mixing with salt sweat, stinging and distracting. He raised his fists slowly, his heart hammering. Dobbie responded, holding his low for a first murderous punch, his pale, unblinking eyes locked on Kydd’s.
Akins raised his arm, looking at each in turn. His eyes flickered once and the arm sliced down. ‘Fight!’ he yelled and leaped aside.
For one split second, Dobbie held Kydd’s eyes, then cut loose with a bellow. ‘No!’ he roared, dropping his arms. ‘Be buggered! I’ll not do it!’
The crowd fell into an astonished silence, staring at Dobbie. He thrust his head forward, his fists by his side. ‘Take a swing, mate – come on, make it a settler.’
Kydd, shaken but suddenly understanding, obliged with a meaty smack to the jaw, which rocked Dobbie. Laffin came forward with his knife and severed the ropes. Dobbie got to his feet. He shook his head and turned to the rowdy crush. ‘Shipmates! Y’ came t’ see a grudge fight, an’ I’m sorry I can’t give yez one. See, this ’ere is Tom Kydd as I remember fr’m the Nore – I saw ’im stand alongside Dick Parker ’n’ them in the mutiny when others were runnin’ like rats. But I thought as ’ow ’e got ’is pardon by sellin’ out his mates, an’ I told him so.
‘Mates, if y’ wants a lesson in honour, Mr Kydd’s yer man. Won’t stand fer anyone takin’ ’im fer a villain without ’e stands up fer ’isself, an’ that’s why ’e sees me ’ere – a duel, like. An I ’ave ter say, I didn’t reckon ’e’d ’ave the sand t’ see it through, sling ’is mauley like a good ’un, ’im bein’ an officer an’ all.’
He turned back to Kydd and touched his forehead. ‘I’d take it kindly in ye should y’ shake m’ hand, sir.’
A roar of wild applause burst out, going on and on, until Dobbie held up his arms. ‘M’ lads – I want yer t’ unnerstand, this ’ere Kydd is one of us, but ’e’s done good fer ’imself, an’ that’s no crime. An’ I f’r one is going ter foller Lootenant Kydd.’
‘All bets ’r off, gennelmen!’ bawled Akins.
The press of spectators broke into riotous commotion. Kydd’s comprehension of events rapidly disintegrated – he was being slapped on the back and idolised by dozens of drunken seamen. An unwilling Tysoe was plied with beer; women’s gleeful painted faces danced before him; and Dobbie, now the centre of a throng of seamen, was telling the story of the great mutiny of the Nore.
Admiral Vandeput and his squadron returned three days later, joining Tenacious at her anchorage. Kydd was in the boat returning from the flagship, and could see Renzi waiting on the quarterdeck of Tenacious, and dared a brief wave. It was good to see his friend and the clouds lifted from his spirit.
Clutching the precious pouch of despatches and confidential signal information, Kydd hauled himself up the side and took Renzi’s hand. ‘I’d thought to see you flag-lieutenant b’ now,’ he said.
‘Flag-lieutenant? Not if the present incumbent can help it.’ Renzi chuckled drily. ‘And while you’ve been in this Arcadia resting, I’ve been privy to secrets concerning the cod fishery that would stand you amazed, dear fellow.’
‘You’ll tell me of y’r secrets this very afternoon. You get y’r gear inboard while I get these t’ Captain Houghton. I have it from on high that the adm’ral will want t’ have his squadron to sea f’r exercises as soon as he’s stored – that’s t’morrow, I’ll wager.’
‘If it were at all possible, a light walk ashore among the spring blooms would be pleasant, Tom. Our admiral does not spare his minions, you may believe.’
The Dartmouth side of the harbour was speckled with green shoots and the ground was firming. They paced it out in the hesitant sunshine, feeling the country awake out of its winter retreat.
‘A singular place, Newfoundland,’ Renzi said, at length. ‘At times I believed that the island should be entirely covered by curing fish, were it not that room has to be made for the vats of that monstrously malodorous fish oil.’
‘Your secrets?’ Kydd wanted to know.
‘Nothing, really. It’s a turbulent place that requires the admiral to show firm on occasion – the fisher gentry from Devon have it that Newfoundland is their personal fief, and deliver rough justice to those who say otherwise. You’d smile to hear the talk in an assembly at St John’s – you’d swear it was Exeter or Bideford on market day.’
They walked on companionably. ‘So, all has been uneventful in the meantime?’ Renzi enquired.
Kydd hesitated. Renzi was the soul of discretion, but that was not the point at issue – his uncle had left the resolution of his problem to him alone: Should he involve his friend in a matter of family?
There was no question: he had been on his own for too long. ‘Nicholas, the strangest thing – I met m’ uncle f’r the first time not long since.’ His tone made Renzi look at him sharply.
‘Yes – m’ father’s brother, here in Canada.’ Kydd went on to tell of his discovery and his quandary – and his decision neither to conform to the story of the bear nor to reveal his uncle’s current whereabouts to his family.
‘An admirable, even logical decision, Tom, and I honour you for it,’ Renzi said sincerely.
They strolled on in the quietness at the edge of the forest. ‘That’s not all of the matter, is it, brother?’ Renzi said, stopping and facing Kydd directly. ‘I’d be honoured to share whatever it is that lays its hands on my friend.’
Kydd looked away, staring at the jack-pines carpeting the landscape, all seeming the same but when looked at separately every one an individual, uncountable thousands into the blue-grey distance. ‘Nicholas, it doesn’t answer. I have t’ face it. I’m not t’ be one of y’r deep-dyed, gentleman officers who knows their fox-hunting an’ Seasons. I know seamanship an’ navigation, not dancin’ and talking to ladies.’
‘Dear fellow, this—’
‘When I got my step t’ the quarterdeck it was hard t’ believe. Then it seemed to me that there was no end t’ it – captain of my own ship, even. But I know better than that now. The King’s service needs l’tenants for sure, but only the gentlemen will find ’emselves promoted – an’ I’m no gentleman, an’ now I know it.’
‘No gentleman? What nonsense—’
‘Spare me y’r comfortin’ words, Nicholas,’ Kydd said bitterly. ‘For my own good, I have t’ hoist this aboard an’ stop pining f’r what can’t be, and that’s that.’
‘But it only requires you learn the marks of civility, the—’
‘Is that all it is to be a gentleman, jus’ know all the tricks? I don’t think so.’ Kydd fell silent, morosely kicking a pine cone.
‘Do you despise gentlemen?’ Renzi asked quietly.
Kydd flashed him a suspicious look. ‘Not as w
ho should say – they were born to it, that’s their good luck . . . and yours,’ he added, with a sardonic smile.
They walked on for a space, then Kydd stopped again. ‘T’ be honest, it sticks in m’ gullet that I’m t’ leave promotion to others – and I’m of a mind t’ do something about it.’
‘What?’
‘Well, in a merchant ship they have no care f’r gentle ways – a berth as mate in an Indiaman would suit me right handsomely, one voyage a year out east, an’ my own freight . . .’
‘Leave the Navy?’
‘And why not?’
Kydd obstinately avoided Renzi’s gaze as his friend stared at him.
In a brisk south-easterly early next morning the North American Squadron put to sea for one week’s exercising in the waters between Nova Scotia and the United States, the 74-gun HMS Resolution as flagship in the van, the seven ships a picture of grace and might.
In Tenacious, at the rear, the picture was more apparent than real: the file of ships that stretched ahead to the flagship in perfect line also obscured her signals, and the little fleet could not stretch to the luxury of a repeating frigate.
Despairing, Kydd hung out from the rigging to weather, trying to steady his big telescope against the thrumming in the shrouds and bracing himself to catch the meaning of Resolution’s signal flags end-on. They were clawing their way out close-hauled; if they were to end on an easterly course passing south of the Thrumcap they would have to pass through the wind’s eye.
It was the admiral’s choice, to tack about or wear round, and with the Neverfail shoal waiting ahead and the same unforgiving rocks under their lee that had claimed Tribune so recently. Tack or wear – put the helm down or up – it all depended on the signal that would be thrown out to the fleet in the next few minutes.
Captain Houghton stumped up and down the quarterdeck, nervous midshipmen scuttling along behind him, the master keeping a respectful distance to his lee. It was impossible to send the men to their stations until it was known the action to be taken, and they stood about the decks in uneasy groups.
Quarterdeck Page 19
