Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

He turned to go, but Dobbie said quietly, "In Sandwich." Kydd stopped and turned. Dobbie stared back, his gaze holding Kydd's with a hard intensity. "Aye—when you was there. I remembers ye well . . . sir."

It had been less than a year ago but the Sandwich was a name Kydd had hoped never to hear again. She had been the mutineers' flagship and at the centre of the whirlwind of insurrection and violence at the Nore. It had climaxed in failure for the mutiny and an end to the high-minded attempt to complete the work begun at Spithead. Many sailors had paid with their lives. Kydd had joined the mutiny in good faith but had been carried along by events that had overwhelmed them all. But for mysterious appeals at the highest level he should have shared their fate.

"Dick Parker. Now there was a prime hand, don' ye think? Saw what was goin' on, but concerns hisself with the men, not th' gentry. Sorely missed, is he."

Kydd drew back. Was Dobbie simply trying to ingratiate himself, or was this a direct attempt at drawing Kydd into some crazy plot? Anxiety and foreboding flooded in. Either way this had to be stopped.

"Enough o' this nonsense. Where I came from before I went t' the quarterdeck is no concern o' yours, Dobbie. Pay y'r respects to an officer an' carry on." Even in his own ears it rang false, lacking in authority.

Dobbie looked relaxed, a lazy smile spreading across his face. Kydd glanced uneasily about; no one was within earshot. "Did ye not hear? I said—"

"Me mates said t' me, 'An' who's this officer then, new-rigged an' has the cut o' the jib of the fo'c'sle about 'im?' What c'n I say?" Dobbie was confident and as watchful as a snake. "I keeps m' silence, 'cos I knows you has t' keep discipline, an' if they catches on that you is th' Tom Kydd as was alongside Dick Parker all the time—"

"What is it ye want?" Kydd snapped.

Dobbie picked up the end of the fall and inspected its whipping, then squinted up at Kydd. "Ah, well. I was wonderin'—you was in deep. Not a delegate, but 'twas your scratch what was clapped on all them vittlin' papers, I saw yez. Now don't y' think it a mort strange that so many good men went t' the yardarm but Mr Tom Kydd gets a pardon? Rest gets the rope, you gets th' King's full pardon 'n' later the quarterdeck." The lazy smile turned cruel. "We gets t' sea, the gennelmen in the fo'c'sle hear about you, why, could go hard f'r a poxy spy . . ."

Kydd flushed.

Dobbie tossed aside the rope and folded his arms. "Your choice, Mr Tom Kydd. You makes m' life sweet aboard—I'm a-goin' t' be in your division—or the fo'c'sle hands are goin' to be getting some interestin' news."

"Damn you t' hell! I didn't—" But Dobbie turned and padded off forward.

Kydd burned with emotion. It was utterly beyond him to have spied treacherously on his shipmates as they had fought together for their rights. He was incapable of such an act. But the men of the fo'c'sle would not know that. Dobbie was one of them, and he was claiming to have been with Kydd at the mutiny and to have the full story. Unable to defend himself in person, Kydd knew there was little doubt whom they would believe.

The consequences could not be more serious. He would not be able to command these men, that much was certain; the captain would quickly recognise this and he would be finished as an officer. But it might be worse: a dark night, quiet watch and a belaying pin to the head, then quickly overside . . .

And the wardroom—if they believed he owed his advancement to spying and betrayal, what future had he among them?

It was incredible how matters had reached such a stand so quickly. He would have to move fast, whatever his course. The obvious action was to submit. It had definite advantages. Nothing further would happen because it was in Dobbie's interest to keep his leverage intact. And it would be simple: Kydd as an officer could easily ensure Dobbie's comfortable existence.

The other tack would be to brazen it out. But Kydd knew this was hopeless: he would be left only with his pride at not yielding to blackmail, and that was no choice at all.

He yearned for Renzi's cool appraisal and logical options: he would find the answers. But he was in Newfoundland. Kydd was not close to Adams and the others: he would have to face it alone.

His solitary, haunted pacing about the upper deck did not seem to attract attention, and two hours had passed before he found his course of action.

Kydd knew the lower deck, its strengths and loyalties as well as its ignorance; its rough justice and depth of sentiment could move men's souls to achieve great things—or stir them to passionate vindictiveness. He would now put his trust in them, an unshakeable faith that he, even as an officer, could rely on their sense of honour, fairness and loyalty.

The afternoon ebbed to a pallid dusk, and the hands secured, then went below for grog and supper. Kydd waited until they were in full flow. Then he went down the after hatchway to the gun-deck and paused at the foot of the ladder.

The mess-tables were rigged and the usual warm conviviality of a meal-time, enlivened by rum, rose noisily from the tables between the rows of guns. A few curious looks came his way, but in the main seamen were more interested in the gossip of the day and he was ignored.

Methodically, he removed his cocked hat. Then he took off his lieutenant's uniform coat and laid it carefully over his arm. By this time he had the attention of the nearest, who looked at him in astonishment.

He paced forward slowly, and with terrible deliberation. One by one the tables lapsed into an amazed silence, which grew and spread until the whole gun-deck fell into an unnatural quiet and men craned forward for a better view.

Kydd continued his walk, his face set and grim, eyes fixed forward in an unblinking stare. He was either right to trust— or he had lost everything. He passed the great jeer capstan, the mighty trunk of the mainmast, the main hatch gratings, his measured tread now sounding clear and solemn.

He halted abreast the fore capstan, his eyes still fixed forward. Slowly his gaze turned to one side: Dobbie sat, transfixed, at the mess by number-five gun. Kydd marched over. Not a man moved. He held Dobbie with his eyes, dropping his words into the silence. "I'll be waiting for ye—the Mizzen tavern. At two, tomorrow." Then he wheeled about and began the long walk back down the silent gun-deck.

In the privacy of his cabin Kydd buried his face in his hands. As an officer there was no question of how to deal with a slur on one's honour: a duel was the inevitable result. Dobbie was not a gentleman, therefore Kydd could not demean himself in calling him out. But this was a matter for the lower deck: different rules applied. By now the news would be already around the ship. It was too late for him to back away—and also for Dobbie.

Dobbie was big and a bruiser, well used to a mill. Kydd could take care of himself, but this was another matter. Of a surety he would be the loser, in all probability suffering a battering and disfiguring injury. But the result would be worth it. Never more would any man question his honour or integrity: Dobbie's word would be hollow against that of a man who had set aside the power and privileges that were his by right to defend his honour in the traditional way.

Kydd had no fear of it coming to the ear of the captain — or any other officer, for that matter. It would be common currency on the mess-decks and every seaman and petty officer would know of it, but it was their business and, as with so many other things, the quarterdeck never would hear of it.

He slept well: there was little to be gained in brooding on hypothetical events of the next day and in any case there was nothing he could do about it now that events had been set in train.