Julian Stockwin - Caribbee

‘Thank you, Lieutenant. The court will now consider its verdict.’

The cabin was cleared of all but the president and members of the court.

‘A straightforward enough case, I would have thought,’ Cochrane said. ‘Does anyone have any strong views at all?’

This was Kydd’s chance – but what could he do? The man had raised a weapon at a superior officer, an unforgivable crime in the Navy, and before his shipmates. If he were not punished accordingly they themselves would be in breach of the same Articles of War.

‘He’s culpable, of course,’ he found himself saying, ‘but in respect to the wounds of his flogging, should we not consider a mort o’ leniency at all?’

‘Impossible,’ Cochrane snapped. ‘The relevant article leaves us no leeway. If I have to remind you, the previous article allows “… upon pain of such punishment as a court-martial shall think fit to inflict, according to the degree of the offence …” but no backing and filling in this one: “… every such person being convicted of any such offence, by the sentence of a court-martial shall suffer death.” You see?’

He went around the table, brusquely asking for a verdict from each captain.

‘Guilty,’ Kydd said dully at his turn.

‘So, we are agreed. The court will give its judgment. Bring in the prisoner.’

The man stood tense but with a glassy stare.

‘Daniel Smythe. This court finds you guilty as charged of an offence contrary to Article Twenty-Two of the Articles of War. Have you anything to say before sentence is passed upon you?’

He lifted his manacles, then let them drop in a gesture of despair, but no word escaped him.

Even when the dire sentence of execution was pronounced he held his head high, his gaze on an unknowable infinity.

But Cochrane had not finished. ‘Your offence I note was made before others who seem inclined to sympathise with your act. I can see no alternative other than to follow the example of that great admiral the Earl of St Vincent. Therefore, as a warning to each and every one, in two days hence you shall be hanged at the fore-yard of your ship – by your own shipmates.

‘Take him away.’

After the verdict and sentence were recorded and signed by each member of the court, Cochrane declared it dissolved and leaned back, his face looking lined and old.

‘A distasteful business to be sure,’ he muttered.

On the appointed day, at precisely eleven in the forenoon, a yellow flag mounted the main-masthead of Hannibal . From every ship in the squadron a boat left to take position off the vessel, spectators at the last act in the drama. Other ships warped about to allow their companies, turned up on deck in solemn ranks, to gaze on the scene and learn the fate of those who dared lift a hand against authority.

Kydd, with other captains, stood witness on the ship’s quarterdeck, aware of his role as a symbol of the authority and majesty of law that was extinguishing the life of a fellow sailor.

‘Had to end this way, o’ course.’ Pym stood beside him, with a face of stone.

‘How’s that?’ Kydd asked quietly, grateful for the human contact, his heart full of pity for the man whose lifespan was now being measured in minutes.

‘You don’t know Tyrell. Man’s a martyr to discipline since ’ninety-seven, when he lost his first command to mutineers at Spithead.’

So that was what was riding him, had intensified the driving obsession with rule and punishment.

‘That’s not to say he’s shy in battle – he’s the heart of a tiger and shows it. Just been unlucky, never in any fleet engagement worth the name and fears he’s to be overlooked. Like in San Domingo here not six months back. A foul bottom and last into action when it was all but over.’

‘Still and all,’ Kydd said, in a low voice, ‘to have the men follow out of fear will never be my way.’

A sharp slap and crash of muskets caused them to wheel round. It was the Royal Marines guard acknowledging the captain emerging from his cabin spaces. With a suspicious look that turned into one of controlled ferocity, Tyrell stumped to the quarterdeck.

‘Bring up the prisoner!’ he roared.

Hannibal ’s ship’s company was assembled aft, massing in a silent press of barely concealed hostility. Their captain mounted the poop ladder and advanced to the rail, standing aloof in a belligerent quarterdeck brace and looking down on the hundreds of men.

No one moved. Tyrell continued to survey them grimly, saying not a word, letting the tension build.

There was a stir at the hatchway and the prisoner came slowly on deck, blinking in the bright sunlight, ahead of him the chaplain in black, behind him the master-at-arms and two corporals. He was halted at the break of the poop, then turned to face his shipmates.

It was the duty of the captain to muster the hands and pronounce before them why the prisoner’s life was forfeit, all part of the ceremony of death that was intended as a dread spectacle of deterrence. Tyrell read out the relevant Article of War in savage, ringing tones before the ship’s company standing, heads bared. In sharp, harsh sentences he set out why the man must die: the stern code of the sea had been breached and he must be made to pay.

He concluded and descended from the poop, nodding to the Royal Marines officer. A single drum, muffled by black crepe, sounded a roll, then a measured beat as Smythe began the last journey, forward to the yardarm.

Kydd joined the line of officers who followed, just behind Cochrane’s flag-captain, who was representing him. They assembled at the foredeck, and the grim ritual was ready to be enacted.

‘Prepare the prisoner!’

The chaplain moved to Smythe and they knelt together. Kydd could hardly conceive of the despair and anguish that must be rushing through the man’s mind – the boatswain mere paces away waiting with the end of the yardarm whip worked into a halter, on the other side the six-pounder gun-crew with their piece ready charged to signal the moment the prisoner was launched into eternity. And, all around, ships with their silent lines of men looking on.

The seaman rose, deathly pale, a studied blankness his only expression as he moved to the appointed place of execution. The halter was brought and put in place around his neck, followed by a black hood. Smythe had only to step on to the cathead and, at the signal, it would be over.

‘Sir,’ the boatswain’s voice croaked.

Tyrell took his time, looking up and then along to where the prisoner’s shipmates waited, the long line of the hangman’s rope in their hands.

‘Carry on!’

But a loud cry broke into the awful stillness: ‘Hold!’

Tyrell wheeled about in astonishment. The flag-lieutenant hurried up and held out a paper, sealed and beribboned.

‘What’s this, sir?’ he snapped.

‘Admiral Cochrane desires you should read this publicly at this time, sir.’

Kydd’s heart leaped. Could it be …?

His voice savage, Tyrell was obliged to announce to all the world that, of the commander-in-chief’s mercy, the said prisoner was reprieved at the scaffold’s foot.

‘Take him down!’ he snarled.

The hood was lifted, the rope removed from his neck – and, with a muffled groan, Smythe crumpled senseless to the deck.

‘I hear the man was pardoned,’ Renzi said, as Kydd entered. ‘As is the right of a commander on his station,’ he continued. ‘It does have its curiosities, however.’

‘Not now, Nicholas, I’m not in the mood.’

‘You see, in law he is a dead man at the moment sentence is pronounced – a reprieve therefore means he is a new man, debts dissolved but property disowned. I wonder if this extends to the state of marriage. His wife is a widow. Must she marry him again or is she free to seek another?’