Quarterdeck: A Kydd Sea Adventure

by Julian Stockwin

  A shout came from behind him. ‘There he is – the English bastard! Come t’ spy on our friends.’ He recognised the voice of a hothead who had been at the boat. Several men hurried towards him, one hefting a length of paling wood; an authoritative-looking figure watched from the foredeck of the privateer. Kydd stiffened. There would be no help from the spectators by the vessel: they were too busy gawping and the few looking in his direction seemed disinclined to intervene.

  Kydd stood his ground with folded arms. He knew he could probably make a good account of himself, but he would not be the first to make a move.

  ‘Spyin’ dog! Y’ knows what happens t’ spies?’

  ‘Are ye as chuckle-headed as y’ look? I’m no spy, skulkin’ around. I’ve got just as much right t’ take the air here as – as y’r Frenchy there.’

  One of the bystanders came up. ‘He’s right, y’ knows. Both furriners, stands t’ reason y’ can’t pick one over the other.’

  ‘Hold y’ noise, Darby.’ Schroeder strode across. ‘You, sir!’ he called at Kydd, standing aggressively between him and the ship. ‘Will you account for your presence as an officer of a belligerent power at the lawful mooring-place of a ship of the opposing nation? Or shall it be spying?’

  Kydd held his temper. ‘No.’

  Schroeder started. ‘You’re saying—’

  ‘I said, “No”, which is to say I do not have t’ account to you or any man for what I’m about on m’ lawful business on a public highway.’

  Schroeder’s jaw hardened, but Kydd looked past him to the privateer. Scores of men were pouring on to the wharf, scattering the onlookers.

  Kydd waited. Surely they would not dare anything in broad daylight, before witnesses. But then they spread out in a line and moved towards him. Kydd tensed, the features of individual seamen resolving, alien chatter quietening to a purposeful advance.

  Kydd stood firm. They came closer and stopped in front of him, undeniably seafarers, but with their sashes, floppy liberty caps and Mediterranean swarthiness, there was something distorted and menacing about them. They shuffled together to form a barrier, and when Kydd moved to go round it, they blocked his way again. Kydd spotted the figure on the foredeck and bellowed, ‘Let me pass, y’ villains!’ The officer shrugged and called out an unintelligible stream of French. It was stalemate: there was nothing for it but as dignified a retreat as possible.

  Kydd stalked off, seething at being outwitted by the French. At the very least he had hoped to report back on the ship, her state for sea, guns, anything he could see. Now he would have to admit he hadn’t been able to get close.

  He forced his mind to focus on the situation and by the time he’d reached the cross-street he had a plan: he would see the other side instead. That implied a boat; the tide was on the make, which would allow him to drift past and take his fill of the scene.

  Kydd found the young lads playing in the same place and he called across to Peter, ‘A silver sixpence wi’ King George’s head on it should you tell me where I c’n hire a fishin’-boat.’

  The dory was double-ended and handy. In borrowed oilskins, Kydd set the little boat drifting along, an unbaited line over the side.

  The privateer, the Minotaure de Morlaix, was big. Work was going ahead on the mizzen, a new spar chocked up ready on the wharf, but there appeared to be no hurry. Kydd scanned the vessel: her clean lines meant speed but also implied limited sea-endurance, given the large crew.

  His attention was caught by a peculiar break in the line of bulwarks with their small gunports. A whole section amidships had been lowered on hinges – inside Kydd glimpsed the astonishing sight of the black bulk of a long gun, mounted on some sort of pivot, another barely visible trained to the other side of the ship. But this was no ordinary gun: it was a twenty-four-pounder at least. The armament of a ship-of-the-line on a near frigate-sized vessel.

  This must have been the origin of the sound of heavy guns that had mystified Tenacious at sea earlier, and although there appeared to be only one on each side, it would be enough to terrorise any victim and certainly give pause to a similar sized man-o’-war; a grave threat let loose on the trade routes of the continent. It was sheer chance that had placed the only other ship-of-the-line in North America across the Frenchman’s path.

  After returning the boat and gear he walked back along the tree-lined road, deep in thought, but the only conclusion he could come to was the impossibility of his situation.

  A man in an old-fashioned black tricorne hat stopped him. ‘Are you Lootenant Kydd?’

  ‘I am.’

  ‘I’m a constable o’ Exbury township,’ he said importantly, ‘an’ I’m instructed by the selectmen to advise ye that a warrant fer a town meetin’ has been issued concernin’ you.’

  ‘Ah – does that mean they wish me t’ attend?’

  The constable looked aghast. ‘No, sir! Only citizens o’ this town c’n attend a town meeting. Mr Dwight jus’ wants ye to know that y’r matter is being looked into, is all.’

  Kydd turned to go, but the constable pulled at his sleeve. ‘Yon Frenchy is goin’ – make sure an’ be there as well, I’tenant. Th’ meeting house is round the corner.’

  People from all parts of the town were making their way to a small building whose lines reminded Kydd of the Methodist chapels of his youth. Several greeted him openly; others glared. Schroeder arrived in a carriage and was handed down by a black man. He ignored Kydd and waited; a little later a French officer arrived and the two fell into discussion.

  Kydd found his eyes straying to the tall, elegant figure he recognised from the morning’s events. By the inscrutable logic of war, he was being granted sight of the man who, as his king’s enemy, was his duty to kill.

  The discussion stopped. The two turned in his direction and Kydd felt the intensity of the Frenchman’s glare across the distance; he hesitated, then withdrew his gaze. When he dared another look, they were walking away.

  ‘All attendin’ please enter!’ bawled the constable. The latecomers and Schroeder entered, leaving Kydd and the Frenchman alone.

  Should he follow the dictates of politeness that required he notice the man and introduce himself, or was there some form of defiance required that he had not the breeding to recognise? The Frenchman was tall, mature and had a languid elegance in his mannerisms that made Kydd aware of his own origins. His feelings of inadequacy returned and he stared back at the man with dislike.

  There were bad-tempered shouts from inside, then a head-to-head crescendo. The Frenchman looked across at Kydd and raised his eyebrows in a gesture of refined amusement, but Kydd was unsure of himself, wanting no part in any kind of engagement, and turned sharply away.

  Unexpectedly the door to the meeting house opened and Dwight appeared. ‘Gentlemen,’ he called, looking carefully between them, ‘the meeting recognises that this is an, er, irregular situation, and wishes you each t’ state your case now.’

  There was a hush in the audience, and heads turned as Kydd followed the Frenchman up the aisle. At the simple table at the front there was no provision for extra persons. ‘We have t’ ask ye to stand, if y’ will,’ Dwight said apologetically.

  The rows of faces that looked back at Kydd seemed either impassive or hostile, and anxiety rose in him at the thought of a public humiliation from the worldly Frenchman.

  ‘Citizens o’ Exbury, it’s my duty to present – Capitaine Hercule Junon of the French ship Minotaure.’ The French officer inclined his head graciously. ‘An’ this is L’tenant Kydd, of the English ship Tenacious.’ Kydd inclined his head also, but feared the gesture had turned out as a nod.

  ‘In view of Captain Junon bein’ French as he is, and just to be fair, is there any man present can translate for him?’

  Schroeder immediately stepped forward. ‘I can.’

  ‘Then let’s begin. We have here a request from our English guest that it might be better to hear fr’m him direct. L’tenant?’

  Kydd’s palms moistene
d. He took a deep breath and turned to address the meeting. ‘You have a French privateer alongside, here in Exbury. He has every right t’ be here, to repair an’ refit as he needs. But the law says he must leave in forty-eight hours. I request that th’ United States do then enforce the law an’ make sure he does. Er, that’s all.’

  There was a disturbance at the back of the hall and a distant voice shouted, ‘Y’ mean, send ’em out to just where y’r waiting for ’em?’

  Another voice cut in, yelling at the first, and Dwight rapped sharply with his gavel. ‘I’ll have order in the meeting. Now, Captain Junon?’

  There was an exchange in low voices, then Schroeder faced Kydd. ‘Captain Junon understands L’tenant Kydd’s duty in this matter and approves his spirit, but begs to be informed, what is this law of which he speaks? He has no knowledge of such a one.’

  Kydd tried to remember Houghton’s hurried words before he left. ‘Ah, Captain Junon needs remindin’ of the Rule of War of 1756. This specifies clearly—’

  There was an urgent mutter from Junon, and Schroeder nodded impatiently. ‘The Rule of War of 1756 is, of course, an English law and has had no jurisdiction in the United States after 1776 – and, since the lieutenant apparently requires educating, deals with the opening of trade to neutrals and really has no bearing whatsoever on this affair.’

  Scattered titters came from the audience. Kydd stared back stubbornly, but could think of no rejoinder.

  ‘And while we are discussing rules, by what laws do the British press men out of American vessels and take their ships prize on the high seas?’ Junon allowed an expression of injured pride to appear while Schroeder pressed home his words. ‘Are the British so careless of the sanctity of a nation’s flag that they dare attempt to demand from the citizens of a neutral country—’

  Kydd glared at Junon. ‘I saw y’r ship firing on an American flag vessel not two days ago.’

  A rustle of interest was interspersed with occasional shouts. Junon allowed it to die away before he made his reply to Schroeder. ‘Regrettably there are occasions when Captain Junon’s government requires him to confirm that a vessel is not conveying contraband – there are some whose conscience is not clear in this regard and attempt to flee. It is sometimes a necessity to deter.’

  ‘And is this the action of a friend to America, I ask the captain?’ Kydd said hotly, incensed at Junon’s facile delivery.

  A burst of clapping provoked angry shouts from another quarter and Dwight called for order again.

  Kydd’s face burned. ‘We also have our treaty!’ he lashed out. ‘And in it—’

  ‘Sir!’ Schroeder called, in mock outrage. ‘You must recall that yours was not a treaty of friendship – not at all. This was, dare I say it, the vanquished accepting terms from the victor!’

  A storm of mixed protest and cheers broke out, obliging the constable to intervene. Dwight stood and waited for the uproar to diminish, then spoke firmly: ‘Will the strangers now withdraw?’

  Outside, Kydd paced rigidly, avoiding Junon’s amused glances, as they waited for the meeting to come to a decision. It was not long before the hoots and shouts died away. After an interval the constable summoned them back.

  ‘L’tenant, we have voted on the matter of your request,’ Dwight said importantly. ‘The township of Exbury has considered it, and as selectman I have to tell you your request is denied.’

  Kydd’s expression tightened, but he tried to put the best face on it, remembering to turn and bow to the people of the town.

  ‘The business of this meeting is now concluded.’

  The gathering broke up noisily and people streamed to the door. Dwight fiddled with his papers and, in a low voice, said to Kydd, ‘I’m sendin’ a rider to Hartford. This should be gov’ment business.’

  Jacob Hay came forward with his hat in his hands. ‘Jus’ like t’ say sorry it came out agin you, Mr Kydd, but as ye can see, the people spoke.’ He put out his hand and Kydd could see that it was genuinely meant.

  Outside, people were still in groups, some in animated discussion. Kydd could not remember when he had felt so isolated. A roar of laughter drew his attention: it was Darby, one of the hotheads of the morning’s events at the French ship.

  Kydd’s blood rose as the man approached him. ‘Y’ lost yer vote, then,’ he said loudly. Kydd could not trust himself to reply, but then Darby clapped him on the shoulder and said, ‘No hard feelin’s? I’d take it kindly if you’d sink a muzzler with us, friend.’

  Kydd could not think what to say, but a surging need for the release of a drink and the rough companionship of a tavern overcame his wonder at American generosity of spirit. ‘Aye, I would,’ he said, and allowed himself to be taken to the Blue Anchor. The weatherboard tavern was already alive with humanity, and Kydd began to feel better. There were odd glances at his clothing, but Darby loudly announced his presence. ‘What’ll ye have?’ he asked genially.

  ‘Er, a beer?’

  ‘Beer? That’s spruce, birch, sassafras?’

  A nearby toper closed his eyes and chanted, ‘“Oh, we can make liquor t’ sweeten our lips – of pumpkins, o’ parsnips or walnut-tree chips.”’

  ‘Aye, well, it’s the sassafras, then.’

  It was the strangest-tasting brew. ‘Er, what do ye mix with this’n?’ Kydd inquired carefully.

  ‘We don’t mix anythin’, Mr Englishman. That’s straight beer, it is, bit o’ y’r beet tops, apple skin, roots all boiled in, gives it taste, o’ course.’

  Kydd downed it manfully, then called for something different. Darby slipped a china mug across to him. ‘Flip – now there’s a drink f’r a man.’ Kydd lifted the creaming brew doubtfully and was not disappointed at the strength of the rum that lay within.

  ‘To th’ American flag!’ Kydd called.

  There was a surprised roar and Kydd found faces turning his way. The reddest called across to him, ‘Well, I can’t drink t’ your king, friend, but I can t’ your good health.’

  The drink was doing its work and Kydd beamed at his new friends. In the corner a pitch-pipe was brought out and after a few tentative whistles two young men launched into song.

  ‘Come, join hand in hand, brave Americans all,

  And rouse your bold hearts at fair Liberty’s call;

  No tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim

  Or stain with dishonour America’s name!’

  ‘Let’s hear an English song, then!’ Darby demanded, grinning at Kydd and shoving another flip across.

  ‘I’m no sort o’ hand at singin’,’ protested Kydd, but was overborne. He thought for a moment, recalling what had most stirred him in times past. ‘Well, this is a sea song, shipmates, an’ we sing it around the forebitts forrard – an’ I warn ye again, I’m no singer.

  ‘Come, all ye jolly sailors bold,

  Whose hearts are cast in honour’s mould;

  While English glory I unfold

  On board o’ the Arethusa!’

  He found his voice and rolled out the fine old words heartily. And as he sang his mind roamed over the times and places where he had enjoyed the company of true deep-sea mariners in this way, beside him his shipmates through the gale’s blast and the cannon’s roar, and in all the seas over the globe. As he never would experience again.

  Tears pricked and his voice grew hoarse, but in defiance he roared out the final stanza:

  ‘And now we’ve driven the foe ashore,

  Never to fight with Britons more,

  Let each fill a glass

  To his favourite lass;

  A health to the captain and officers true

  And all that belongs to the jovial crew

  On board o’ the Arethusa!’

  Something of his feeling communicated itself to the tavern: not a soul moved and when he finished there was a storm of acclamation. Even the pot-boy stood entranced and the tapster abandoned his post to stand agog.

  ‘Ah, Mr Kydd – he’ll have a whiskey o’ your best so
rt, Ned,’ one man said, and when Kydd had taken it, he raised his own glass and called, ‘T’ Mr Kydd an’ his Royal Navy!’

  The morning was a trial. With a throbbing head, he had to endure an icy, disapproving silence at breakfast. ‘Guess you’ll be on y’r way now,’ Hay said meaningfully.

  He left after breakfast for a walk in the cool morning to consider his situation. It was obvious that he must admit defeat. He would display the noon signal that would have the boat return to take him off.

  At the end of the cross-street he went to turn down the road but, catching sight of the French privateer, he decided to go the other way. As he did so he caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure slipping out of sight. He frowned and continued, but stopped sharply and turned, to see the figure behind duck away again.

  This might be a French agent on his trail or a crazed citizen seeking revenge on an Englishman – and Kydd was unarmed. He remembered the trees where he had met Peter. He walked on rapidly and, at the end of the road, turned the corner, then sprinted towards them. He heaved himself up among the leaves and on to a branch overlooking the path by the road.

  His shadower swung round the corner and stopped, looking baffled. He moved forward cautiously but did not appear armed. Kydd waited. The man increased his pace and came nearer, treading carefully. Kydd tensed and, when the man passed beneath, dropped on his shoulders. The two fell in a heap, but Kydd was faster and wrenched the man over, gripping his throat one-handed in restraint.

  The man ceased struggling and stared up at Kydd, who slowly released his hold. ‘Er, if you’d kindly let me up, I’ll try to explain.’ The voice was American, polite and apologetic.

  ‘Do, if y’ please.’ Kydd had never heard a footpad so well-spoken, but did not drop his guard.

  The man dusted himself off and smiled ruefully. ‘My name’s Jasper Gindler – Lootenant Gindler – and this kind of work is not t’ my liking, I’ll have you know.’

  ‘Lieutenant – Army?’

  ‘Navy.’

  ‘Don’t try t’ gull me – the United States doesn’t have a navy.’

  The visitors had left. Liston climbed the stairs painfully to his private room, ruing the onset of age with its aches and pains, but he knew his duty.