Julian Stockwin - Mutiny

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 recognise 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 cosy 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 realising 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 deck 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 for ever. 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 blonde 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 gendy, 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 north-easter. 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 fore-deck; 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.

There 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 seaman 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 round 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 swivelling 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.