Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

As he moved about the ship there were surreptitious looks, curious stares and a few morbid chuckles. He went below to find his servant. "Er, Tysoe, there is something of a service I want you t' do for me."

"Sir, don't do it, sir, please, I beg," Tysoe said, with a low, troubled voice. "You're a gentleman, sir, you don't have to go mixing with those villains."

"I have to, an' that's an end to it."

Tysoe hesitated, then asked unhappily, "The service, sir?"

"Ah—I want you to find a fo'c'sle hand who c'n lend me a seaman's rig f'r this afternoon. Er, it'll be cleaned up after."

"Sir." But Tysoe did not leave, disconsolately shuffling his feet. "Sir, I'm coming with you."

"No." Kydd feared he would be instantly discovered and probably roughed up: he could not allow it. "No, but I thank ye for your concern."

There was a fitful cold drizzle when Kydd stepped into the boat, which gave him an excuse to wear a concealing oilskin. Poulden was stroke; he had gruffly volunteered to see Kydd through to the Mizzen tavern, but made determined efforts not to catch his eye as he pulled strongly at his oar.

They landed at King's Slip. Without a word, Kydd and Poulden stepped out and the boat shoved off. The waterfront was seething with activity and they pushed through firmly to Water Street.

It was lined with crude shanties and pothouses; raw weathered timbers abuzz with noise, sailors and women coming and going, the stink of old liquor and humanity in the air. A larger hostelry sported a miniature mast complete with upper yards, jutting out from a balcony. "The Fore, sir," said Poulden, self-consciously. "We has three inns; the Fore, the Main, 'n' the Mizzen, which, beggin' yer pardon, we understands t' be respectively the wildest, gayest an' lowest in Halifax." Hoisted on the Fore's mast was the sign of a red cockerel, a broad hint to the illiterate of the pleasures within.

Kydd's heart thudded, but he was angry with Dobbie—not so much for trying such a scheme but for the slur on Kydd's character. His anger focused: whatever the outcome of the next few hours he would see to it that he left marks on Dobbie.

They swung down a side-street to see a crowd of jostling men outside an entrance with a small mizzen mast. "Sir, gotta leave ye now." Poulden returned the way he came, leaving Kydd on his own. His mouth dried. Screeches of female laughter and roars of appreciation at some unseen drunken feat filled the air. As a young seaman he'd been in places like this, but he had forgotten how wild and lawless they were.

"There he is! Told yer so!" Heads turned and Kydd was engulfed with a human tide that jollied him inside, all red faces and happy anticipation. A black-leather can was shoved at him, its contents spilling down his front. "No, thank ye," he said quickly, thrusting it away.

Women on the stairs looked at him with frank curiosity, some with quickening interest at his strong, good looks. A hard-featured seaman and two others tried to push through. "Gangway, y' scrovy bastards, an' let a man see who it is then," he grumbled.

"Akins, Master o' the Ring. I have t' ask, are ye Lootenant Kydd an' no other?" The taphouse broke into excited expectancy at Kydd's reply. He recognised both of the others: Dean, boatswain's mate of Tenacious, standing with brutal anticipation, and Laffin, petty officer of the afterguard, wearing a pitying expression. There were others from Tenacious, their images barely registering on Kydd's preternaturally concentrated senses.

"Are ye willing t' stand agin Bill Dobbie, L'tenant, the fight t' be fair 'n' square accordin' t' the rules?" There was a breathy silence. Bare-knuckle fighting was brutal and hard, but there were rules—the Marquess of Queensberry had brought some kind of order to the bloody business.

"Aye, I'm willing."

The pothouse erupted. "Fight's on, be gob, an' me bung's on Dobbie."

This was going to be a legendary match to be talked of for years. The crush was stifling, but Laffin cleared the way with his fists and they passed through the damp sawdust and sweaty, shoving humanity to the sudden cool of the outside air. It was a small inner courtyard with rickety weathered buildings on all four sides. In the centre, sitting on a standard seaman's chest, was Dobbie.

Kydd stopped as the significance of the chest crowded in on him. This was not going to be a fight according to Queensberry's rules: this was a traditional way of the lower deck to settle the worst of grudges—across a sea-chest. They would sit facing each other over its length, lashed in place, to batter at each other until one yielded or dropped senseless.

To back away now was impossible. He had to go through with it. He took in Dobbie's deep chest and corded arms. His fists were massive and strapped up with darkened, well-used leather. There was no doubt that Kydd was in for heavy punishment.

The men and women in the courtyard were shouting obscene encouragement to Dobbie, urging him to take it out on an officer while he had the chance. A hoot of laughter started up at the back of the crowd and Kydd's servant was propelled to the front.

"Tysoe!"

"Sir, sir—" He had a bundle clutched to his chest, and his frightened eyes caught Kydd's. "I came, sir, I—I came—"

"He's come t' drag Tom Cutlass home after, like," chortled Dean. It was the first Kydd had heard of any lower-deck nickname—from the desperate time fighting in the boat when his sword had broken and he had taken up a familiar cutlass. Strangely, it strengthened his resolve.

"Don't worry, Tysoe, I'll see ye right!" Kydd said forcefully, above the crowd.

The laughter died as the men sensed the time had come. Kydd looked directly at Dobbie, who returned the look with a glittering-eyed malignity. "Get on wi' it, yer sluggards!" screamed one woman, her cries taken up by the baying circle of men. Scowling, Akins turned to Kydd. "Get y'r gear off, then, mate."

Kydd pulled off his shirt, feeling the icy cold wind playing on his bare torso. There was a stir of amazed comment as the stretched and distorted scars criss-crossing his back were recognised for what they were: a relic of the long-ago agony of lashes from a cat-of-nine-tails at a grating. The woman's screeches diminished and the crowd subsided.

Laffin produced cords and Kydd took his place at the other end of the chest, feeling the feral impact of Dobbie's presence, his heart racing at the carnage about to be wrought. The ropes cut into his legs, but his eyes rose to lock on Dobbie's.

"Are ye ready, gemmun?" Akins had no watch, no tools of a referee—this was going to be a smashing match. A thin, cold rain began, chilling Kydd's skin and running into his eyes, mixing with salt sweat, stinging and distracting. He raised his fists slowly, his heart hammering. Dobbie responded, holding his low for a first murderous punch, his pale, unblinking eyes locked on Kydd's.

Akins raised his arm, looking at each in turn. His eyes flickered once and the arm sliced down. "Fight!" he yelled and leaped aside.

For one split second, Dobbie held Kydd's eyes, then cut loose with a bellow. "No!" he roared, dropping his arms. "Be buggered! I'll not do it!"

The crowd fell into an astonished silence, staring at Dobbie. He thrust his head forward, his fists by his side. "Take a swing, mate—come on, make it a settler."

Kydd, shaken but suddenly understanding, obliged with a meaty smack to the jaw, which rocked Dobbie. Laffin came forward with his knife and severed the ropes. Dobbie got to his feet. He shook his head and turned to the rowdy crush. "Shipmates!

Y' came t' see a grudge fight, an' I'm sorry I can't give yez one. See, this 'ere is Tom Kydd as I remember fr'm the Nore—I saw 'im stand alongside Dick Parker 'n' them in the mutiny when others were runnin' like rats. But I thought as 'ow 'e got 'is pardon by sellin' out his mates, an' I told him so.