Julian Stockwin - Quarterdeck

Scattered titters came from the audience. Kydd stared back stubbornly, but could think of no rejoinder.

"And while we are discussing rules, by what laws do the British press men out of American vessels and take their ships prize on the high seas?" Junon allowed an expression of injured pride to appear while Schroeder pressed home his words. "Are the British so careless of the sanctity of a nation's flag that they dare attempt to demand from the citizens of a neutral country—"

Kydd glared at Junon. "I saw y'r ship firing on an American flag vessel not two days ago."

A rustle of interest was interspersed with occasional shouts. Junon allowed it to die away before he made his reply to Schroeder. "Regrettably there are occasions when Captain Junon's government requires him to confirm that a vessel is not conveying contraband—there are some whose conscience is not clear in this regard and attempt to flee. It is sometimes a necessity to deter."

"And is this the action of a friend to America, I ask the captain?" Kydd said hotly, incensed at Junon's facile delivery.

A burst of clapping provoked angry shouts from another quarter and Dwight called for order again.

Kydd's face burned. "We also have our treaty!" he lashed out. "And in it—"

"Sir!" Schroeder called, in mock outrage. "You must recall that yours was not a treaty of friendship—not at all. This was, dare I say it, the vanquished accepting terms from the victor!"

A storm of mixed protest and cheers broke out, obliging the constable to intervene. Dwight stood and waited for the uproar to diminish, then spoke firmly: "Will the strangers now withdraw?"

Outside, Kydd paced rigidly, avoiding Junon's amused glances, as they waited for the meeting to come to a decision. It was not long before the hoots and shouts died away. After an interval the constable summoned them back.

"L'tenant, we have voted on the matter of your request," Dwight said importantly. "The township of Exbury has considered it, and as selectman I have to tell you your request is denied."

Kydd's expression tightened, but he tried to put the best face on it, remembering to turn and bow to the people of the town.

"The business of this meeting is now concluded."

The gathering broke up noisily and people streamed to the door. Dwight fiddled with his papers and, in a low voice, said to Kydd, "I'm sendin' a rider to Hartford. This should be gov'ment business."

Jacob Hay came forward with his hat in his hands. "Jus' like t' say sorry it came out agin you, Mr Kydd, but as ye can see, the people spoke." He put out his hand and Kydd could see that it was genuinely meant.

Outside, people were still in groups, some in animated discussion. Kydd could not remember when he had felt so isolated. A roar of laughter drew his attention: it was Darby, one of the hotheads of the morning's events at the French ship.

Kydd's blood rose as the man approached him. "Y' lost yer vote, then," he said loudly. Kydd could not trust himself to reply, but then Darby clapped him on the shoulder and said, "No hard feelin's? I'd take it kindly if you'd sink a muzzler with us, friend."

Kydd could not think what to say, but a surging need for the release of a drink and the rough companionship of a tavern overcame his wonder at American generosity of spirit. "Aye, I would," he said, and allowed himself to be taken to the Blue Anchor. The weatherboard tavern was already alive with humanity, and Kydd began to feel better. There were odd glances at his clothing, but Darby loudly announced his presence. "What'll ye have?" he asked genially.

"Er, a beer?"

"Beer? That's spruce, birch, sassafras?"

A nearby toper closed his eyes and chanted, " ' Oh, we can make liquor t' sweeten our lips —of pumpkins, o' parsnips or walnut-tree chips. ' "

"Aye, well, it's the sassafras, then."

It was the strangest-tasting brew. "Er, what do ye mix with this'n?" Kydd inquired carefully.

"We don't mix anythin', Mr Englishman. That's straight beer, it is, bit o' y'r beet tops, apple skin, roots all boiled in, gives it taste, o' course."

Kydd downed it manfully, then called for something different. Darby slipped a china mug across to him. "Flip—now there's a drink f'r a man." Kydd lifted the creaming brew doubtfully and was not disappointed at the strength of the rum that lay within.

"To th' American flag!" Kydd called.

There was a surprised roar and Kydd found faces turning his way. The reddest called across to him, "Well, I can't drink t' your king, friend, but I can t' your good health."

The drink was doing its work and Kydd beamed at his new friends. In the corner a pitch-pipe was brought out and after a few tentative whistles two young men launched into song.

Come, join hand in hand, brave Americans all,

And rouse your bold hearts at fair Liberty's call;

No tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim

Or stain with dishonour America's name!

"Let's hear an English song, then!" Darby demanded, grinning at Kydd and shoving another flip across.

"I'm no sort o' hand at singin'," protested Kydd, but was overborne. He thought for a moment, recalling what had most stirred him in times past. "Well, this is a sea song, shipmates, an' we sing it around the forebitts forrard—an' I warn ye again, I'm no singer."

Come, all ye jolly sailors bold,

Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould;

While English glory I unfold

On board o' the Arethusa!

He found his voice and rolled out the fine old words heartily.

And as he sang his mind roamed over the times and places where he had enjoyed the company of true deep-sea mariners in this way, beside him his shipmates through the gale's blast and the cannon's roar, and in all the seas over the globe. As he never would experience again.

Tears pricked and his voice grew hoarse, but in defiance he roared out the final stanza:

And now we've driven the foe ashore,

Never to fight with Britons more,

Let each fill a glass To his favourite lass;

A health to the captain and officers true

And all that belongs to the jovial crew

On board o' the Arethusa.

Something of his feeling communicated itself to the tavern: not a soul moved and when he finished there was a storm of acclamation. Even the pot-boy stood entranced and the tapster abandoned his post to stand agog.

"Ah, Mr Kydd—he'll have a whiskey o' your best sort, Ned," one man said, and when Kydd had taken it, he raised his own glass and called, "T' Mr Kydd an' his Royal Navy!"

The morning was a trial. With a throbbing head, he had to endure an icy, disapproving silence at breakfast. "Guess you'll be on y'r way now," Hay said meaningfully.

He left after breakfast for a walk in the cool morning to consider his situation. It was obvious that he must admit defeat. He would display the noon signal that would have the boat return to take him off.

At the end of the cross-street he went to turn down the road but, catching sight of the French privateer, he decided to go the other way. As he did so he caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure slipping out of sight. He frowned and continued, but stopped sharply and turned, to see the figure behind duck away again.

This might be a French agent on his trail or a crazed citizen seeking revenge on an Englishman—and Kydd was unarmed. He remembered the trees where he had met Peter. He walked on rapidly and, at the end of the road, turned the corner, then sprinted towards them. He heaved himself up among the leaves and on to a branch overlooking the path by the road.

His shadower swung round the corner and stopped, looking baffled. He moved forward cautiously but did not appear armed. Kydd waited. The man increased his pace and came nearer, treading carefully. Kydd tensed and, when the man passed beneath, dropped on his shoulders. The two fell in a heap, but Kydd was faster and wrenched the man over, gripping his throat one-handed in restraint.