Kydd (36 page)

“Of course. If we return to England to tell ’em there, it’ll be too late.”

“But — ”

“Do you want it upon your conscience that you betrayed y’r friends? And our desertion — they’ll be so pleased to be tipped the wink, we’ll be heroes.”

They soon fell into a routine; always the whole five on deck and under eye at the one time, Jouet always under the muzzle of a gun. In everything they did, they moved slowly, carefully, their eyes everywhere, watchful.

The tension was fearful.

Fortunately their course did not require them to tack, and they bowled along south-westward with little attention to the tacks and
sheets. When night fell the lanthorn Renzi hung in the rigging played on the three sprawled on the main hatch.

A three-quarters moon rose, bathing them in soft silver glitter, making it easier to check on their captives. Renzi stood guard, occasionally pacing slowly to keep awake, Kydd sleeping on deck beside him.

The moon rose higher, moving behind the swell of the sails. The ceaselessly moving lines of rigging projected stark black against the backlit sails, swaying hypnotically.

Renzi’s eyes grew heavy, and when the moon was high in the night sky he woke Kydd for his watch. It didn’t take him long to drift off into a deep, dreamless sleep.

The sudden concussion of a musket burst into his sleep. He sat up, eyes straining to make sense of where he was. Two of the French were standing, brought to a halt by Kydd’s vigilant shot. “Tell them I’ve five other shots’ll be waitin’ for their next move!” he said thickly.

Renzi did so, reloaded the musket and settled down again.

Dawn found them both huddled together, muskets across their knees, bleary-eyed.

How much endurance had they left? It might be days before they encountered the squadron, if at all, for there was no knowing where they might be. All they had as a clue was a half-remembered mental image of the French coast, a picture of a low, nondescript coastline jutting out and going in again that they knew so well from their constant beating up and down.

And over there was the coast right enough, but Renzi did not recognize it in the slightest part. It was going to be a long, long vigil. He stood up and stretched. “Need to pump ship — going forrard.”

Kydd nodded, and stood also, his musket loose and ready.

Renzi passed down the waist, warily eyeing the tense, glowering French. He eased himself and made his way back past them.

In a sudden lunge the wiry sailor made his move. He leaped from behind and a flash of steel flew at Renzi’s throat before he could react.

“
Arrêtez-vous!
” the man snapped.

Renzi halted. It was a sailmaker’s knife, small and curved and razor sharp. It rested against his windpipe. The man was hidden by his body, so there was no target for Kydd.

But Kydd had the gun instantly jabbing into the fat man. Eyes flashed murder over the space between — and there was absolute stillness. His hand on the trigger, Kydd hauled Jouet to his feet. Carefully, he edged sideways until he had the man at the wheel in sight and the stand of muskets behind his back.

It was stalemate.

Long minutes passed. Renzi held still, a thin half-smile his only concession to emotion. The fat man lay at Kydd’s feet sweating, and the other Frenchmen bunched up behind Renzi.

There was no sound except the slap and crunch of the bow waves and the cheerful pattering of reef points on the sail.

The wiry seaman growled at Renzi.

“He says to throw down your musket.”

“Tell him to — tell him what you like.”

“He says — he desires you to know that my throat will shortly be cut.”

“Remind him that the fat man gets it in the guts instantly.”

The man with the knife made a scornful remark.

“His view is that Jouet’s life is not worth preserving.”

“Then I’ve still five shots ready for them.” Kydd kept his musket on Jouet.

“He says that you will only get one or two shots away before they overcome you, and these are odds they are willing to take.”

Kydd detected only the slightest tremor in Renzi’s voice.

The tableau held — but there would soon be a sudden, desperate move on one side or the other and it would be over quickly in a flurry of death and mutilation.

In helpless fury Kydd glared at them. He jerked the muzzle up when the man with the knife inched Renzi forward. He was aware that the man at the wheel had abandoned it and was ready to spring on him, because the brig had fallen off the wind.

They closed in.

Then Kydd laughed. Harsh, maniacal laughter, barking away.

They stopped.

“They want to know if you’ve gone mad.” There was anxiety in Renzi’s voice.

Kydd stopped laughing. “Tell him if he drops his knife I might consider him my prisoner, or then again I might not.”

Relaxing, Kydd looked at them contemptuously. Slowly he lifted his arm and pointed to the south. Hidden by the sails before but now revealed by their falling off the wind was the plain sight of a British sloop-of-war. She had seen them and was fussing over to investigate.

They lay at their ease on the little foredeck, no duties for them-the lieutenant of the sloop’s prize crew had been most insistent. The sloop had hurried away to alert the Commodore, leaving the
Judith and Mary
to transport the two at their leisure to rendezvous with the
Duke William
.

A pigtailed old seaman coiled down the fore halliards. “You lucky buggers!” he said enviously. “Prize money on this little barky’ll set yez up fer life or chirpin’ merry forever.”

“When we finally make it back,” Kydd said dreamily. He would cut a figure in Guildford — gold watch, buy up one of the fashionable shops on High Street, his family wouldn’t believe it. Only a few miles down the road was Hatchlands, a vast estate built for Admiral Boscawen after the last war — and now Thomas Kydd would be the one pointed out parading in town.

Renzi was wrestling with his conscience. He was less than a third of the way through his sentence-would striking it personally lucky make it ethically allowable to remit the remainder? He rather thought not.

Duke William
backed her topsails and hove to. Curious faces looked down from her decks high above as Kydd and Renzi mounted the entry steps and came over the bulwarks onto the well-remembered quarterdeck.

Kydd grinned at the jaw-dropping surprise their appearance caused. Tyrell stumped his way rapidly from forward to confront them.

“Take them in charge! Put them in irons this instant!” he roared. Lockwood looked bemused.

“If you’ll allow me to explain, sir,” a voice behind them said smoothly. It was the lieutenant of the prize crew arriving from the entry port.

At that moment the Captain emerged from the cabin spaces. The lieutenant lifted his cocked hat politely and drew them both aside.

Kydd looked around happily. The sounds and smells he remembered surged over him — he nodded to Doggo on the wheel, and grinned cheekily at Elkins, who stood speechless by the mainmast.

The lieutenant doffed his hat again and left — he would have an anxious time on the voyage back to England.

Captain Caldwell came over. Kydd touched his forehead. “I think we might have misjudged you, Kydd,” he said pleasantly.

“Couldn’t abide t’ see
Duke William
mauled so, sir,” he said respectfully. “May I ask, sir, will we be in time?”

“Set your mind at rest, Kydd. The sloop has probably reached Admiral Howe by now and I daresay we’ll be able to provide a warm enough welcome for the French when he comes out.”

“Sir, will we get prize money f’r the brig?”

Caldwell coughed politely. His eyes slid to Tyrell and back again. “Well, as to that, you must understand that at the time you were technically deserters. I’m sorry.”

Kydd’s heart fell. So much for dreaming.

“But welcome back, Kydd. I can see a fine future for you in the King’s Service, mark my words.”

“Sir — I must point out —”

“Mr. Tyrell?”

“They
are
deserters!”

“Come now, Mr. Tyrell, let us not allow our zeal for the Service to overcome our common humanity.”

Tyrell’s black eyebrows contracted. “I must insist, sir. The regulations cannot be so lightly set aside — they knew what they were doing!”

The Captain hesitated.

“They should be taken in charge, sir.”

Tyrell’s obdurate manner unbalanced Caldwell. It would go hard with him if for any reason it could be shown later that he had failed in his duty to bring a deserter to justice.

“Very well. Take them below.” He avoided Kydd’s eyes and returned to the cabin spaces.

Kydd struggled to face it. The Articles of War and naval regulations gave little leeway once a crime was proven — desertion was a serious problem for the Navy and the penalties were savage, intended to deter. It was absolutely no use to appeal to natural justice: the law must take its course.

He sat appalled at the impossible-to-conceive prospect of three hun
dred lashes — and
Duke William
was at the end of her sea endurance and must soon sail back to England and the Fleet.

His feet were in bilboes once more — he would have to get used to it, for they would be in irons even after they arrived back in port. He tried to lie back, but could not, the bilboes twisting his leg irons.

What was so hard to bear was that he had involved Renzi, who sat in irons uncomplaining next to him. Kydd sank into a quiet misery.

Early the next morning the Master-at-Arms appeared. “Up!” he said.

Shackles were removed, manacles went on their wrists and they were led up to the upper deck — for exercise, Kydd assumed.

On the quarterdeck the Captain and Tyrell were waiting.

The Master-at-Arms saluted. “Prisoners mustered, sir!” His pig eyes swiveled curiously to Kydd.

Caldwell nodded and stepped forward. “You see there, Kydd,” he said, gesturing over to leeward.

No more than a few cables off lay
Artemis,
the legendary crack frigate. She kept up lazily with the big battleship, effortlessly slicing through the water. She looked impossibly lovely-as new as
Duke William
was old, smart as paint and with fresh white sails, gold leaf gleaming on her scrollwork; she was an ocean racer, a lucky ship that had already made her daring captain a rich man.

Kydd turned his dull eyes back to the Captain. “Sir?”

“She has signaled us.”

Kydd wondered what on earth this had to do with him.

“
Artemis
has prize crews away — she has signaled us to the effect that she would be grateful if we could spare a dozen seamen. I have answered that we can.

“Master-at-Arms, remove the gyves. These men are going to
Artemis
— thoroughly bad lot, glad to be rid of ’em!

“We’d better get rid of their associates as well. They’d be of like mind, I’ll wager.”

Dumbfounded, Kydd allowed his fetters to be struck off.

Captain Caldwell continued, “The boatswain has explained to me what happened. It seems that unfortunately we left you behind in the hold when the brig sailed. My apologies.”

“Then th’ prize money, sir?” Kydd said, greatly daring.

“Let’s leave it at that, shall we?” Caldwell said smoothly. “Get your
dunnage, and let me know who your accomplices are — they will be going with you.”

Kydd and Renzi exchanged a quick expression of wild hope. Tyrell stormed forward, confronting the pair, but Caldwell gestured, placating. “Thank you, Mr. Tyrell. Kindly prepare to be under way in fifteen minutes, will you?

“Now, Kydd, you go as a volunteer and able seaman according to the books — but let me warn you” — the Captain’s expression softened to a half-smile —“you’ll find life in a frigate just a little bit different from that in a ship-of-the-line!”

Kydd
is based on real life. I feel that I would devalue what the eighteenth-century seaman really achieved were I to exaggerate or distort facts for the sake of drama — for me, a particularly odious form of betrayal. Therefore, all the major actions and most of the minor are as close as I can make them to the real thing. I have pondered this matter hard and have come to the conclusion that it is acceptable as a working principle to keep to what actually happened, but for the sake of narrative flow, in some cases, vary the
time
when it happened. For instance, Admiral Howe’s ships did not venture for France until some time after I say — I did not want to have Kydd start his sea adventures in a ship that first swings around its anchor for several months. My ships are actual vessels of the times; I have changed the names only. Engagements are based on real actions of the time with some variation in the time or place described.

As for Thomas Kydd — in the circumscribed world of eighteenth-century society, there were those fortunate enough to be well-born, and there were the lower orders who knew their place and in the main accepted it. Yet in the twenty-two years of warfare at the end of the century, a total of 120 men crossed from the fo’c’sle to the quarterdeck through their own exceptional merit, passing thereby from common seaman to gentleman. They include Lieutenant Pasco, who was signal officer at Trafalgar and who famously amended Nelson’s immortal signal “England expects every man to do his duty,” and also Nelson’s own first lieutenant of
Victory,
a pressed man like Kydd. And of these, twenty-two went on to become captain of their own ship, and three ended as admiral!

These men must have been titans — hard minded, iron willed and utterly resolute — but little is known of them, for none left an autobiog
raphy, with the single exception of Bligh, who for all his faults went on to fight like a tiger as captain of a ship-of-the-line at Camperdown and for Nelson at the bloody battle of Copenhagen.

Today it is hard to get a focus on such men. The distorting lens of Victorian sentimentality gradually changed public perceptions of the sailor to one of Jolly Jack Tar, an object of patronized quaintness. The eighteenth-century seamen were hard men who lived a hard life, and it is equally nonsense to think they were the dregs of humanity, as some more modern writers would have it. The mighty ship-of-the-line was as complex in its day as a moon rocket today. Most seamen were proud, self-sufficient and resourceful men sharing a remarkable culture, but they were not articulate. This book is my tribute to those who became masters of the sea in the greatest age of fighting sail.