Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

"We don' want yore kind here. Git back to yer ship or I'll give yez a charge o' lead up yer backside as will serve as y'r keepsake of Ameriky."

"Get his rope, Jeb —we'll give 'em a ducking." Hands grabbed at the painter, rocking the boat.

"Hold!" The crowd fell back to where a well-dressed man waited on horseback. He dismounted and walked to the jetty edge; malice hung about him. "Can you not see you're unwelcome, sir?" he called evenly to Kydd.

"Am I so fearsome the whole town turns out t' oppose me?"

"You're an Englishman—that's enough for these good folk. And Navy too. There's many here who have suffered their ships taken as prize, youngsters snatched away by the press— they have reasons a-plenty, sir." There were cries of agreement. "Therefore I'd advise you to return whence you came." He folded his arms.

Kydd lowered his head as though in resignation, but his eyes were busy measuring, gauging. He placed a foot on the gunwale, leaped across the gap of water, heaved himself over the edge of the jetty and ended up next to the man. "I thank ye for your advice, sir, but as you can see, here I am, landed." He dusted himself off. "L'tenant Kydd, at your service, sir."

The man's reply was cold. "Schroeder. Christopher." He did not hold out his hand.

Kydd bowed, and looked around at the crowd. "I thank ye most kindly for my welcome, and hope m' stay will be as pleasant." When it was clear there would be no interchange, he leaned over and ordered his crew to throw him up his single piece of baggage. "Proceed in accordance with y'r previous orders, Mr Rawson," he added, and the boat stroked away to sea.

He was now in the United States, and very much alone.

Kydd set off down the path into the village, which he knew by the chart was the tiny seaport of Exbury in the state of Connecticut. It was a pretty township, barely more than a village with square, no-nonsense wooden houses and neatly trimmed gardens—and, to Kydd's English eyes, unnaturally straight roads with their raised wooden sidewalks. It also had a distinct sea flavour: the resinous smell of a spar-maker, the muffled clang of a ship-smithy and what looked like a well-stocked chandlery further down the street.

Women carrying baskets stopped to stare at him. The men muttered together in sullen groups. "Can you let me know where I c'n get lodgings?" he asked one, who turned his back. When he located the general store to ask, its keeper snapped, "We'm closed!" and slammed the door.

Kydd sat down heavily on a bench beneath a maple tree. It was a near to hopeless mission, but he was not about to give up. He had no idea what had turned the town against him, but he needed lodgings.

A gang of rowdy youngsters started chanting:

. . . And there they'd fife away like fun

And play on cornstalk fiddles

And some had ribbons red as blood

All bound around their middles!

Oh—Yankee doodle, keep it up

Yankee doodle dandy . . .

Kydd missed the significance of the revolutionary song and, nettled by his politeness, the youths threw stones at him. Kydd shied one back, which brought out a woman in pinafore and bonnet. She glared at him, but shooed away the urchins.

He picked up his bag and set off towards the other end of town. As he passed the houses, each with their doors and windows all closed, a man stepped out on to his porch. "Stranger!" he called sternly.

Kydd stopped. "Aye?"

"You're the Englishman."

"I am, sir—Lieutenant Thomas Kydd of His Majesty's Ship Tenacious ."

The man was thin and rangy, in working clothes, but had dignity in his bearing. "Jacob Hay, sir." Kydd shook his hand. It was work-hardened and calloused. "Your presence here ain't welcome, Lootenant, but I will not see a stranger used so. If it's quarters ye're after, I'm offerin'."

"Why, thank you, Mr Hay," said Kydd, aware of several people muttering behind him. Hay glanced at them, then led the way into his house.

"Set there, Mr Kydd, while we makes up a room for ye." Kydd lowered himself into a rocking-chair by the fire. "Judith, find something for Mr Kydd," he called, through the doorway. A young woman entered with a jug and a china pot. She did not lift her eyes and left quickly.

To Kydd, Hay said, "There's no strong drink enters this house, but you'll find th' local cider acceptable."

Kydd expressed his appreciation and, proffering some coins, added apologetically, "I have t' tell you now, sir, I don't have any American money for my room."

"Put it away, sir. That won't be necessary." Hay pursed his lips and said, "I don't mean t' be nosy, but can I ask what business is it y' have in Exbury? Somethin' to do with the Frenchy, I guess."

"I—have to, er, enquire of the authorities what they mean t' do in the matter," Kydd said cautiously.

"To do? Nothin' I guess. Frenchy is here t' fit a noo mizzen and be on her way, and that's all—we let him be."

"It's the law, Mr Hay."

"Law? No law says we has to send him out fer you to take in that two-decker o' yourn," he said coldly.

"I have t' hear the authorities first, y' understands," Kydd said. "Who would that be, do ye think?"

Hay's coolness remained. At length, he said, "That'll be Mr Dwight or Mr Chadwick. Selectmen fer Exbury." Seeing the blank look on Kydd's face, he added, "Magistrates, like. Call th' meetings, run th' constables."

"I'd like to call on 'em, if y' please," Kydd said politely.

"Time fer that after supper." The aroma of fresh-baked bread filled the air. Hay sniffed appreciatively. "An' if I'm not wrong we're havin' steamed clams."

". . . and may the Lord make us truly thankful. Amen."

While Mrs Hay set about the dishes, Kydd tried to make conversation. "M' first time in the United States. I have t' say, it's a good-lookin' country." Hay regarded him without comment.

Kydd smiled across at Judith, who hastily dropped her eyes. He turned once more to Hay. "I'd be obliged if ye could find your way clear t' tellin' me why I'm not welcome, Mr Hay."

Hay's face hardened. "That's easy enough. We live fr'm the sea by fishing 'n' trade. We're a small town, as ye can see, and when a ship is built an' vittled for tradin' there's a piece of everyone in her when she puts t' sea. Life ain't easy, an' when a family puts in their savin's it's cruel hard t' see that ship taken f'r prize by a King's ship an' carried into a Canadian port t' be condemned."

"But this is because you've been caught trading with the French—the enemy."

"Whose enemy?" Hay snorted. "None of our business, this war."

"And if the French beat us, then you don't think they're going to come and claim back their American empire? They have most o' the rest of the world."

Hay grunted. "Eat y'r clams, Mr Kydd."

The atmosphere thawed as the meal progressed. Eventually, after apple pie and Cheddar, Hay sat back. "If you're goin' t' see a magistrate, make it Dwight." He wouldn't be drawn any further and Kydd set off alone. At the substantial gambrel-roofed house, which Hay had previously pointed out, he was greeted by a short, tubby man wearing a napkin tucked round his neck.

"Er, I need t' see Mr Dwight."

"Himself," the man said, in a peculiar, rapid delivery. "I guess you're the English officer. Am I right?"

"Aye, Lieutenant Kydd. Sir, pardon me if I seem unfamiliar with y'r ways, but I need t' find the authority here in Exbury— the public leader, as it were, in your town."

Dwight raised his eyebrows, but motioned Kydd inside and closed the door. "I'll shake hands with you in private, if you don't mind, L'tenant. Now sit ye down, and here's a little rye whiskey for your chilblains."

Kydd accepted it.

"Sir, if you're lookin' for our leader, I guess I'm your man.