Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

Selectman o' Exbury. It's about as high as it goes, short o' the governor in Hartford. Now, how can I help you?"

"Sir, I come on a mission o' some delicacy. No doubt you're aware that a French privateer lies in your port—"

"I am."

"—which we surprised in the fog in th' process of takin' a merchant ship of the United States goin' about its lawful business."

"Don't surprise me to hear it, sir."

"Oh?" said Kydd, prepared only for disbelief and scorn.

"Sir. Let me make my position clear. I'm known as a plain-speakin' man and I'll tell it straight.

"I'm a Federalist, same as the President, same as General Washington himself. I won't try your patience in explaining our politics. Just be assured we stand for the old ways and decent conduct, and we don't hold with this damn French arrogance and ambition. We're opposed by a bunch o' rascals who think t' sympathise with them on account of their help in the late war—saving y'r presence, sir."

Kydd began to speak, but was interrupted. "I said I'll speak plain, and I will. We've been taking insults to our flag and loss to our trade, and we'll not have it. There's going t' be an accounting, and that soon.

"But, sir, I'll have you understand, because we take the same view, this does not mean we're friends."

Kydd gathered his thoughts and began again: "What we seek, sir, is an indication how you mean to act." As smoothly as he could, he continued, "You have here a belligerent vessel seeking a neutral haven f'r repairs. According to international law, he must sail within two days. Do ye mean to enforce the law?"

Dwight sighed. "Philadelphia is a long ways off—the law is as may be. Here, it's what the citizens say that counts."

"Does this mean—"

"If I tried t' arrest the Frenchman with my two constables, I'd start a riot— and be thrown out of office. This town has just lost a ship t' the British and two lads to your press-gang. And I'd run smack dab against Kit Schroeder."

"I believe I've met the gentleman," Kydd murmured.

"Owns three ships and the store, knows how t' lift a cargo with all the right papers to see it past the British an' then on to a French port. There's most folks here do business with him and don't want to see him interfered with, y' see."

"So you're saying that there's nothing you c'n do? You mean th' Frenchy to lie alongside as long as he wants?" For the sake of local politics the privateer was to be left untouched; Tenacious would be forced to sail in a few days, releasing the vessel to continue her career of destruction. Resentment boiled up in Kydd.

Dwight held up a pacifying hand. "Now, I didn't say there was nothing I could do. I'm a selectman an' you have come to me with a case. I'll be letting the governor in Hartford know—but that'll take some time with the roads as they is. However, I'm empowered to, and I will, issue a warrant for a town meeting to consider, um, whether the committee of public safety should take action to prevent there being a hostile action on our soil. Requiring the Frenchman t' take himself elsewhere, say. No promises, Mr Kydd, but you'll get to say your piece and—"

He broke off and cocked his head. Indistinct shouts sounded in the night, rhythmic thuds like a drum. Dwight crossed to the window and pulled the shutter ajar. "Trouble," he said, in a low voice. "Republicans. Don't like you being here, I guess."

Kydd peered out. Flickering torches were being borne along towards them, and in their light he saw marching figures, gesticulating, shouting.

"Had 'em here before, the wicked dogs. Here, lend me a hand, sir." They moved over to each window and secured the folding shutters, the smell of guttering candles in the gloom of the closed room now oppressive.

A maid came from the rear, hands to her mouth. "We'll be quite safe, Mary," Dwight said, and pulled open a drawer. Kydd caught the glint of a pistol. "They're only here 'cos they've had a skinful of Schroeder's liquor—they'll be away after they've had their fun."

He eased open the shutter a crack. "See that? They're wearing a tricolour cockade in their hats! Republicans do that so there's no mistake who it is they support."

The noise grew close. A drum thudded in an uneven rhythm, while harsh shouts and laughter came clearly through the closed shutters. Suddenly there was a sharp thud and tinkling glass, then another. Dwight stiffened and swore. "Breaking windows. I'll have Schroeder's hide—no need f'r this."

But, as he had prophesied, the influence of drink faded and the small crowd dispersed. "I'm truly sorry you've been inconvenienced, Mr Kydd," Dwight said, with dignity, "but in my country we value free speech above all things. Good night to ye."

Kydd did not sleep well and was up at cockcrow, pacing along the single cross-street to get the stiffness from his limbs.

It did not take long for the gang of youngsters to find him and begin chanting again, but Kydd grinned broadly and gave them a cheery wave. They soon tired of the sport and darted away. After a few minutes one returned and took station next to him. Kydd guessed he was about ten.

"Are you English?" the boy blurted out.

"Aye. I come fr'm Guildford, which is in Surrey," Kydd said.

"What's your ship's name?"

"Oh, she's His Britannic Majesty's sixty-four-gun ship Tenacious, an' I'm her fifth l'tenant, Kydd, so you have t' call me 'sir'!"

"Yes, sir," the boy said smartly. "I'm Peter Miller." They walked on together. "How do ye keelhaul a man, sir?"

"What? No, lad, we don't keelhaul sailors. We flog 'em, never keelhaul." Kydd chuckled.

"Have you ever bin flogged, sir?" Peter asked, wide-eyed.

Kydd hesitated. It was not an admission he would make in polite company. "Yes, a long time ago, before I was an officer."

Peter nodded seriously. "I want t' join the Navy like you, but my pap says we ain't got a navy," he added defensively.

"We have Americans in the Royal Navy, lad. Ye could—"

"No, sir!" Peter said with spirit. "I'll not serve King George. Er, that's any king a'tall, not just your king, sir."

Kydd laughed, and the boy scampered off.

He reached the end of the street, turned the corner and found himself heading towards the French privateer alongside the commercial wharf. At the thought of seeing the ship at such close quarters he quickened his pace. There were idle onlookers standing about on the quay taking their fill of the novel sight; Kydd could see no reason why he should not be one of them.

A shout came from behind him. "There he is—the English bastard! Come t' spy on our friends." He recognised the voice of a hothead who had been at the boat. Several men hurried towards him, one hefting a length of paling wood; an authoritative-looking figure watched from the foredeck of the privateer. Kydd stiffened. There would be no help from the spectators by the vessel: they were too busy gawping and the few looking in his direction seemed disinclined to intervene.

Kydd stood his ground with folded arms. He knew he could probably make a good account of himself, but he would not be the first to make a move.

"Spyin' dog! Y' knows what happens t' spies?"

"Are ye as chuckle-headed as y' look? I'm no spy, skulkin' around. I've got just as much right t' take the air here as—as y'r Frenchy there."

One of the bystanders came up. "He's right, y' knows. Both furriners, stands t' reason y' can't pick one over the other."

"Hold y'r noise, Darby." Schroeder strode across. "You, sir!" he called at Kydd, standing aggressively between him and the ship. "Will you account for your presence as an officer of a belligerent power at the lawful mooring-place of a ship of the opposing nation? Or shall it be spying?"

Kydd held his temper. "No."

Schroeder started. "You're saying—"