By the cathead another basket of fresh bread was being hauled up from a boat. Teamed with a paper pat of farmhouse butter and a draft from a stone cask of ale, it was selling fast to hungry seamen. A cobbler industriously tapped his last, producing before their very eyes a pair of the long-quartered shoes favored by seamen going ashore, and a tailor’s arms flew as a smart blue jacket with white seams and silver buttons appeared. All appeared shipshape forward, and Kydd grunted in satisfaction. Beyond the broad netting, the bare bowsprit speared ahead to the rest of the ships at anchor.
Cockburn indicated the old three-decker battleship moored farther inshore. “She’ll never see open water again.” Stripped of her topmasts and running rigging, her timbers were dark with age and neglect; her old-fashioned stern gallery showed little evidence of gold leaf, and green weed was noticeable at her waterline.
“Aye, Sandwich—she’s th’ receiving ship only,” Kydd answered. Too old for any other work, she acted as a floating prison for pressed men and others.
“Do you know then who’s the captain of the sixty-four over there?” Cockburn asked.
“Director? No, Tam, you tell me!”
“None else than your Cap’n ‘Breadfruit’ Bligh, these five years avenged of his mutiny.” He paused impressively.
Kydd did not reply. In his eyes Bligh should have been better known for his great feat of seamanship in bringing his men through a heroic open-boat voyage without the loss of a single one. He turned abruptly and clattered down the ladder. Sitting cross-legged on the fore-hatch gratings, a fiddler sawed away, his time being gaily marked by a capering ship’s boy with a tambourine weaving in and out of the whirling pairs of sailors and their lasses. Some of the women wore ribbons, which the men took and threaded into their own jackets and hats. Groups gathered near the foremast playing dice, perched on mess tubs; others tried to read or write letters. The whole was a babble of conviviality and careless gaiety.
Kydd looked about. There was drink, mainly dark Kent beer but not hard spirits. So far there was no sign of real drunkenness—that would come later, no doubt. Groups of men, probably from other ships, were in snug conversation at mess tables farther aft. Ship visiting was a humane custom of the service, and even if liberty ashore was stopped, acquaintances with former shipmates could be pleasantly renewed. But as he moved toward them, the talk stopped and the men turned warily to face him. “Lofty.” He nodded to Webb, a carpenter’s mate.
The man looked at him, then the others. “Tom,” he said carefully.
“Nunky” Kydd greeted an older able seaman.
There was the same caginess. “Yes, mate?”
The seamen looked at him steadily. The visitors were clearly long-service and showed no emotion. Kydd shrugged and moved down the fore-hatchway to the gundeck, the lower of the two lines of guns, and to the screened-off areas for the married men along the sides of the deck between each pair of cannon. There was an air of an unexpected domesticity, ladies gossiping together on benches along the midline of the deck, brats scampering about. A dash of color of a bunch of flowers and the swirl of dresses added an unreality to the familiar warlike neatness of the gundeck. Kydd answered the cheery hails of some with a wave, a doff of his hat to others, and passed aft, happy there would be no trouble there.
A final canvas screen stretched the whole width of the deck. Kydd lifted it and ducked beneath. In the way of sailors, girls they had taken up with in this port before became “wives” again for their stay. But in deference to real wives they were not accorded the same status or privacies. In hammocks, under hastily borrowed sailcloth between the guns, the men consorted with their women, rough humor easing embarrassment.
Kydd moved on, eyes steadily amidships, alert for the trouble that could easily flare in these circumstances. Then down the hatchway to the orlop—the lowest deck of all. In its secretive darkness anything might happen. He kept to the wings, a walkway around the periphery, hearing the grunts and cries from within the cable tiers. It was a harsh situation, but Kydd could see no alternative; he would not be one to judge. On deck again he was passed a note by a signal messenger. “Fr’m offa bumboat, Mr. Kydd.” It was addressed to the officer-of-the-watch. Kydd opened it. It was in an unpracticed but firm round hand:
Dere Sir,
I humblie pray thet yuo will bee so kind as too allow my dere bruther, Edward Malkin, be set ashor on libbertie. Whyle he was at see, his muther dyed an I must aqaynt him of itt. Iff yuo find it in yor harte to lett him on shoar to the atached adress he will sware to repare back on bord tomorow afor cok-crow.
Yor servent, sir
Kitty Malkin
Queen Street
Sheerness
Kydd’s heart sank. There had not been so many deaths on Achilles’s commission, but Ned Malkin’s had been one, a lonely end somewhere in the night after a fall from a yardarm into an uncaring sea. His pay had stopped from that hour; Kydd hoped that the family were not dependent on it.
The captain had not yet returned with the admiral’s sanction to liberty, and no one could go ashore, except on ship’s business. He stared across the gray sea to the ugly sprawl of Sheerness at the tip of the island. The least he could do while he was delivering the dockyard demand was call and gently extinguish false hopes. As he gazed at the land, he imagined a forlorn soul looking out across the stretch of water, silently rehearsing the words of grief she would have to impart. Folding the paper and sliding it into his coat, he said, “Tam, you have th’ ship. L’tenant Binney is in the wardroom. I’m takin’ a boat to the dockyard.”
As he watched the modest ramparts of the garrison fort rise above gray mudflats, the low marshy land stretching away on Sheppey island as well as across the other side of the Medway the isolation of the place settled about Kydd. Even when they rounded the point and opened up a view into the dockyard, the bleakness of Sheerness affected his spirits.
The dockyard itself was concentrated at the Thames-ward tip of Sheppey, the usual features easily apparent—a ship under construction on the stocks, a cluster of hulks farther along and countless smoky buildings of all sizes and shapes. An indistinct clamor of activity drifted across the water as the cutter went about and headed into a mud dock. The last of the tide had left the stone steps slippery with weed, and Kydd stepped carefully ashore, finding himself to one side of a building slip. His experience in a Caribbean dockyard did not include new ships and he looked up at the towering ribbed skeleton with interest.
Directly ahead, across the dusty road, were the dockyard offices. These had seen many a naval demand and Kydd was dealt with quickly. He was soon out again in the scent of fresh-planed timber and smithy fumes. He gathered his thoughts. The dockyard was not big. He would find where the Malkin family lived fairly quickly, then get it over with. While still in the boat he had seen a huddle of houses just outside the gates, and guessed that this would be where most lived.
It was not far—between the saw pits and clangor of the smith’s workshop, past more graving docks, one holding a small frigate with cruel wounds of war, and then to the ordnance buildings with its gun wharf adjacent. Finally, there was the extensive mast pond and, out from it, half a dozen sizable hulks close to each other. The gates of the dockyard were manned by sentries, but they merely looked at him with a bored expression. A master’s mate would never be asked for a liberty ticket. “D’ ye know where I c’n find Queen Street?” he asked.
One man scratched his jaw. “Doan think I know that ’un,” he said, after a pause. “This ’ere is Blue Town, yer knows,” he said, gesturing to the mean streets and ramshackle dwellings that crowded close after the drab burial ground. “Ye c’n get anythin’ yer wants there,” he said, eying Kydd curiously.
Kydd started off down the rutted street, which passed along the boundary of the garrison. A crazy web of little alleys intersected it and a stench of sewerage and decay was on the air. Blue Town was not the kind of area to be graced with street signs. The barefooted urchins were no help, and hi
s shoes spattered mud over his coat. As the settlement thinned into marshland, Kydd saw the road wind away across the marshes into a scatter of far-off buildings he assumed was Sheerness town. It was time to return; he had tried. He trudged back, irritated. At the gate, the sentry stopped him. “Oi remember, naow. What yer wants is Queen Street on th’ Breakers.”
The other sentry tut-tutted wisely. “Shoulda known.” At Kydd’s look he added hastily, “That’s all them ’ulks a-floatin’ out there—proper town they has on ’em, streets an’ all.”
There were prison hulks in Portsmouth for prisoners of war and the assembling of convicts for the miserable voyage to Botany Bay, but Kydd had never heard of ships being used as formal accommodation. On looking closer he was impressed: built over with roofs, chimneys everywhere and commodious bridges between them, in the evening light they were a curious species of goblin rookeries, neat and well cared for.
He mounted the first bridge out to a two-decker; the whole upper deck was built over, all guns had been removed and a row of “houses” lined the sides of the “street.” Each house had tubs of plants, white-painted pebbles, picked-out window frames, and in front of him was a scarlet and green street sign: George Street. A cheery soul told him that Queen Street was in the next vessel, and Kydd passed across, daring a peep into one window where places were being laid for an evening meal in a room as snug as any to be seen on dry land.
The message gave no street number, but there were painted name-boards on each door. Kydd found one marked “Malkin” and knocked. The door squeaked open and a young woman appeared, in a pinafore and mob cap. “Oh!” she said faintly, at Kydd’s uniform. Her blue eyes had a softness that was most fetching.
“Er, Thomas Kydd, master’s mate o’ Achilles” he said gently “An’ you must be Miss Kitty Malkin?”
Her hand flew to her mouth. “Yes, I am, sir,” she said. “It’s about Edward!” she blurted. “He’s in trouble, isn’t he, an’ can’t get ashore?” The eyes looked at Kydd appealingly “It’s been a long time, sir, to be away …”
“C’n I speak to y’r father, if y’ please?”
Something about his manner alarmed her. “Whatever has t’ be said to m’ father can be said to me, sir.”
Kydd hesitated.
“Then please t’ step inside, sir.” Kitty opened the door wide to allow Kydd to enter. It was a tiny but neat and pleasing front room, rugs on the floor, sideboard displaying treasured china and some bold portraits on the wall; Kydd thought he could recognize Ned Malkin in one set about with crossed flags and mermaids. A polished table was half set for an evening meal—there was only one place.
“Pray be seated, sir,” she said, her eyes never leaving his. The two cozy chairs were close to each other and Kydd sat uncomfortably. “It’s kind in you to come visit,” she said. Her hands were in her lap, decorous and under control.
“Ned—a taut hand,” he began.
“Is he in y’r watch, sir?” she asked. It was odd to hear a woman familiar with sea terms.
“No, but I’ve seen him in the tops in a blow, right good seaman …” Kydd tailed off.
She picked up on his hesitation. Her face went tight. “Somethin’s happened to Ned, hasn’t it?” She sat bolt upright, her hands twisting. “I c’n see it in your face, Mr. Kydd.”
Kydd mumbled something, but she cut it short. “Y’ must tell me—please.”
“I’m grieved t’ have to tell ye, Miss Kitty, but Ned’s no more.”
Her face whitened in shock. “H-how did it happen? Fever? But he was always so strong, Ned …”
“It was a tumble fr’m a yardarm at night.” There was no need to go into details; the utter darkness, everything done by feel up in the surging rigging, the hand going out and clutching a false hold and a lurch into nothing until the shock of the sea. Then, seeing the ship’s lights fade into the night and the lonely horror of realizing that, no matter how hard the struggle, the end must surely come—minutes or long hours.
“Wh-when?”
“Jus’ two nights afore we made soundings,” he said. No more than a week or so ago, Ned Malkin could be seen on the mess-deck enjoying his grog and a laugh, spinning a yarn on a night watch …
For a long while she stared at him, then her face sagged. She glanced just once at the picture on the wall. “Thank you f’r coming, sir—many wouldn’t,” she said, in a small voice.
The moment hung, stretching out in a tense silence that seemed to go on forever. Faint sounds penetrated from the outside. Kydd cleared his throat, and made to rise. “Ah, must return on board,” he muttered. She rose as well, but came between him and the door.
“Can I offer you refreshment, er, some tea?” There was pleading in her eyes, and Kydd knew he couldn’t leave her to her grief just then.
“Oh, a dish o’ tea would be mos’ welcome, Miss Kitty.”
She didn’t move, however. Her white face was fixed on his. “Since Mama died, m’ father went back t’ Bristol to work for his brother.” He wondered why she was telling him. “An’ here I work in the dockyard—I sew y’r flags ’n’ bunting, y’ see. I like it, being near th’ ships and sea—to see Ned sail away t’ his adventures …” Her eyes suddenly brimmed, then the tears came, hot and choking, tearing at Kydd’s composure.
He stood, but found himself reaching for her, pulling her close, patting her and murmuring meaningless phrases; he understood now the single place at table. She was on her own—and asking for human comfort.
Night had fallen, and Kydd could see lights on other vessels through the curtained gunport. Her arm was still over his chest as they lay precariously together on the small bedstead. Kitty’s fine blond hair tumbled over his shoulder; her female form discernible under the coverlet.
She murmured something indistinct, turning to Kydd and reaching for him. He responded gently, wondering at the dream-like transition from comforting to caring, to intimacies of the heart and then the body. So instinctive had it been that there was no need for modesty as she rose, pulling her gown around her and trimming the small light. She turned to face him. “I’d take it kindly, Thomas, if you’d tell me more about Ned an’ Achilles” she said.
“A moment, Kitty, if y’ please.” Kydd swung out, retrieving his shirt and trousers, needing their dignity. “Achilles is a ship-of-the-line—”
“A sixty-four.”
“But not a big ’un, so we gets to see parts o’ the world the fleets never do.”
“Ned says … said, that Achilles was bigger ’n’ any frigate, could take on anything that swims outside th’ thumpers in a fleet.”
“That’s in the right of it, but it means we get more convoy duty than any, ’cos o’ that.” He stopped. “Er, Kitty, d’ye think y’ could get some scran alongside?” he asked sheepishly He had not eaten since the morning.
“O’ course, m’ dear,” she said brightly, then paused. “As long as ye’re back aboard b’ daybreak, you’ll be safe ’n’ snug here.” There was only the slightest inflection of a question.
“Aye, that I will, thank ye.”
When Kydd went aboard Achilles the next morning it was drizzling with a cutting northeaster. Liberty for all had been granted the previous evening, so there was no need to explain his absence, although Binney regarded him quizzically as he reported. He hunched in his oilskins as the rain drummed, watching a bedraggled and sullen group of sailors bring down a topmast from aloft. Normally a seamanlike evolution, now it was an awkward and sloppy display from a fuddled crew. The refined tones of the first lieutenant through his speaking trumpet crackled with irritability, but a hastily applied hitch on rain-slick timber might slip—then the spar would spear down and there would be death in the morning.
After a false start, the fore topmast lay safely on deck, and Kydd was able to dismiss the wet men. He stayed on the deserted foredeck; although the women had been sent ashore the mess-decks were just as noisy and he needed solitude for a while, thinking of what had passed.
T
here was no question: Kitty understood—they both did—that what had happened was spontaneous, impetuous, even, and nothing could be implied in the situation.
His eyes focused on a boat approaching in the drizzle. Most bumboats were huddled into the ship’s side under their tarpaulins, but this one was a naval longboat, four oars and a couple of seamen passengers aft. Probably more ship-visiting, but Kydd was uneasy: these were not jovial shipmates but a sober, purposeful crew. They came aboard, quietly removing their hats and reporting to the officer-of-the-watch before moving quickly below. That this was shortly before the noon dinner—and issue of grog—was probably not of consequence, but with the main battle fleet in open mutiny in Spithead, nothing was above suspicion.
As usual, at the meal, he made it his duty to take a turn around the mess tables, available, but listening, alert for trouble. The fife had played “Nancy Dawson” with its cheery tumpity-tump on a drum for the issue of grog, the sailors had welcomed the arrival of rum-darkened mess kids, and the high point of the day began. But there was something amiss—a jarring note; Kydd couldn’t sense what it was. He saw Farnall, the educated quota man, whom he sensed would always be on the fringes of trouble. Kydd walked over to his table—the same wary silence, the faces following him. He passed by, his easy “What cheer?” to Lofty Webb only brought a frightened swiveling of eyes.
He reached the end of the mess-deck. Out of the corner of his eye Kydd saw movement, and turned. Farnall’s table sat motionless, looking at him. A piece of paper slowly fluttered to the deck. No one moved. Talk died at nearby tables. He picked up the paper. It was badly printed and well creased, but it began boldly: “Brother Tars! Who hath given all for the cause of yr countrys freedom! Now is the time …” Kydd’s eyes lifted slowly, a red flush building. “Whose is this?” he said thickly. The mutinous tract must have been brought aboard from someone in touch with the Spithead mutineers.
Mutiny Page 16
