Kydd

by Julian Stockwin

  “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 ladde
r 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.