Julian Stockwin - Kydd

“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 ladder 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.