Mutiny (6 page)
'This means that your
assembly is in the nature of a fancy-dress, I fear.'
'I
-1
—'
Kydd struggled for words.
Four days later, at three bells in
the first dog-watch, Mr Kydd and Mr Cockburn were logged as stepping ashore.
What was not noted was the capacious sea-bag carried by Mr Kydd, and the haste
with which they hurried to a small taphouse in King's Yard Lane.
Minutes after, at a
side entrance, the astonishing sight of King Neptune emerged furtively, holding
his crown and trident self-consciously, but looking a striking picture with his
muscular torso exposed.
'Best o' luck!'
Cockburn chuckled, Kydd's sea-going rig safely in the bag.
'Be damn'd!' Kydd
growled, but an impish delight was building in him.
The first measures of the dance
were as fearsome a trial as bringing in topsails under the eye of the admiral,
but the same skills that made Kydd a fine seaman out on a yard came to his
rescue and he stepped out the rest of the dance with increasing confidence.
His partners, an
improbable wood-nymph, a well-nourished Britannia, a shy young swan and a stout
milkmaid, all enjoyed dancing with Neptune. The candlelight did well for
Kydd's sea-darkened complexion, and he attracted many thoughtful female
glances.
He dared a look round the long
room: great chandeliers cast a golden light that picked out the sparkles of
ladies' jewellery and gentlemen's quizzing glasses. The smell of candles and
perspiration was swamped in a generous cloud of fragrances, but there was an
unmistakable air of living for the moment. With a stab, Kydd remembered the
grave threats out in the wider world that might bring all of this to an end.
Uneasily aware that he
could be thought a trespasser socially if the gentlemen around him knew his
status, he held firmly to the fact that he had been personally invited. And in
the happy chatter around him he could perceive that there were others who in
England's polite society could not expect an invitation to such an evening as
this. How kind of Emily to invite him. She was a striking woman: tall,
self-possessed, she had the disturbing trick of letting her voice change to a
low purr in the intimacy of a personal conversation.
Kydd smiled and waved at a laughing
mermaid sweeping by.
Emily, thinly disguised as a Spanish
temptress, approached him at refreshments. 'Do I see you enjoying yourself, Mr
Kydd?' she asked lightly, flourishing a large, colourful fan.
'Aye, Mrs Mulvany,'
Kydd said, although his oakum beard was itching and his cardboard crown
drooping in the heat.
'Do call me Emily,' she protested. 'May
I, er
..
.' 'Thomas it is, er,
Emily,' Kydd said. 'Your husband?' 'Sadly, he cannot be with us tonight. A
sweetmeat, Thomas?'
He had become aware
that he was the centre of attention for several other ladies and turned to
address them, but a disturbance at the entrance to the room resolved into the
arrival of an imperious young officer, his tall hat tucked under his arm.
The hubbub went on, so
he bent impatiendy to the resting string quartet, who obliged by sounding a
single strident chord. The talking died in puzzlement, and the officer strode
to the centre of the room. 'News!' he declared dramatically. An animated
murmuring spread among the guests. 'The descent on England . ..' He waited for
silence; the last news anyone had had was of the French fleet's sudden sally
past Pellew's frigates towards England; all else was speculation. '. . . has
been scattered, destroyed!'
Excited chatter burst
out and Kydd exclaimed. The soldier turned to face him. 'They didn't attempt
England — Irish traitors ready to rebel welcomed 'em over there, but it was a
gale o' wind from the north, and the troops couldn't land.' He took a hurried
breath. 'Our fleet missed 'em, but the storm sent 'em all ahoo and they're back
where they came from, the knaves.'
'Ye
mean
—'
'No invasion, no
great battle.' The officer flashed a boyish grin at Kydd, bowed to the ladies
and left.
In the babble of
agitated comment that broke out Emily took Kydd's arm. 'This is Mr Kydd, and
he's mate o f the Achilles she announced loudly. 'He shall explain it all to
us.'
It would be of no use to protest
the subtleties of naval rank and rating at this time: a rapidly gathering group
of dryads, harlequins and nondescripts were converging on him wanting reassurance.
But what
were
the
full circumstances? Did 'destroyed' mean the French were lost in the weather?
'They're back where they came from' implied the invasion fleet was still intact
and therefore a mortal danger. What if—
'Ye'll understand a storm o' wind at sea
can't be commanded b' any admiral. If it blows, y' can't just
—'
'A gale from the
north?' The willowy faun had perfect white teeth and a remarkably well-turned
ankle.
'Why, this is y'r worst news if you were
a Frenchy,' Kydd began, to general interest, 'a foul wind f'r Ireland, right in
y'r teeth
—'
'What's it like in a storm, Mr Kydd? Do
tell!' The young swan, fetchingly accented in blue, simpered under her
eyelashes. Kydd blushed at the attentions from the attractive young women all
around him. Emily frowned and stood closer, her hand still on his arm. Kydd
felt it grip him hard.
Instinctively, Kydd knew he had
been a success. Cockburn had pressed for details, and he had obliged,
entertained by his friend's visible envy. He knew, however, that if Renzi had
attended, his natural patrician urbanity would have assured him a place at the
centre of things. Almost guiltily Kydd found himself grateful he had not been
there.
His thoughts turned to
Renzi's situation: he had heard that Admiral Jervis and his fleet were in the
Tagus, Lisbon, encouraging the Portuguese, but they were the only force in any
way able to meet the French, should they put to sea again. What would happen if
both the French and the Spanish should simultaneously emerge and combine did
not bear thinking about. And Nicholas was there . . .
Aboard Achilles, life settled to a
dull routine. Most seamen had seen their means dissipated quickly. As the days
turned into weeks their prospects for diversion were not large, and a
disquieting pattern asserted itself: cheap wine and quarrels with soldiers
ashore led to meaningless fights in the frustration of endless inaction.
Aboard, 'hands to witness punishment' was now almost a daily feature, and the atmosphere
in the mess decks was turning ugly. The officers found things to do ashore and
were seldom aboard at night.
Kydd was restless too,
but he found himself thinking more and more of Emily. Was he imagining it, or
did she like him? He reviewed his attendance at the assembly—he was certain he
had not let her down, and he was positive she had spent more time with him than
with any other; in a glow he remembered her alabaster complexion, the startling
blue-green eyes and delicate hands — Emily really was an attractive woman. She
hadn't mentioned her husband much .
..
Did that mean -
His eyes snapped into
focus: the first lieutenant was coming aboard and looking at him curiously as
he mounted the brow to the quarterdeck. Kydd touched his hat.
'Ah, Mr Kydd, I'm
desired to give you this.' The officer fumbled inside his waistcoat and drew
out an envelope, which he passed across, watching for reaction. It was in a
hand Kydd recognised. He took it, and placed it carefully inside his jacket
without comment.
In the absent master's
sea cabin aft Kydd pulled out his letter and hurriedly broke the wafer.
Dear Thomas,
My dear friend Letitia
and I usually spend an enjoyable day on Thursdays sketching at Europa Point.
Letitia thought that perhaps you might like to join us one time, should you
feel so inclined. The prospects to be had of Africa and Europe together do
entrance and would exercise the skill of a Girtin or Cogens but we will have
such enormous fun.
If this appeals, would
you signify to the above address at your convenience . . .
Kydd let out his breath. What could
he read into this? With increasing elation he decided to consult with Cockburn
as to the correct routine at a sketching party.
Never having ridden a donkey
before, Kydd straddled the beast nervously; its round belly and knobbly spine
felt utterly strange. Fortunately its grey ears flicked nonchalantly back and
forth without resentment at his gawky mounting, and he perched on its back,
feet nearly touching the ground. Feeling a fool, Kydd smiled tentatively at
Emily.
'Well, then!' she responded, and tapped
her donkey with a polished rattan. The little party wound off southwards:
Letitia, Emily, Kydd and a weatherbeaten old Moor leading a donkey piled with
easels and paraphernalia.
'So good of you to come,' Emily said.
She was riding side-saddle, swaying in time with the clopping of the animal's
hoofs.
'My pleasure, er, Emily.' He was aware
of Letitia's covert gaze on him; she was a studious, quiet soul without much
conversation - might that be due to his presence?
Within half a mile they had left
behind the flank of the Rock and emerged on to the flat area at its tip, which
Kydd knew, from the navigation charts, was Europa Point, and which he had fixed
by bearing as they had approached from seaward.
They made their way to
the rocky end of the land where there was a convenient flat ramp, and
dismounted, Kydd's rump sore and aching. The ladies in their comfortable white
exclaimed at the scene. At their feet, stretching to an immensity, was the deep
blue of the sea, but straight ahead in the distance was the purple and
grey-blue bulk of a mountain at the side of the spreading width of another
coast. 'Africa!' announced Emily, with a dramatic flourish.
The Straits of
Gibraltar to the left was the Mediterranean, and the primordial birthplace of
civilisations; on the other side was the Atlantic Ocean and the pathway to the
rest of the world. Kydd glanced to his right, at the nearby coastline angling
away into the distance in a series of bays and headlands. 'Spain - Algeciras
an' Tarifa,' he offered.
Emily turned briefly to
check on the silent Arab, patiendy spacing out three easels to face the scene,
then came to stand next to Kydd, shading her eyes to look over the glittering
sea. 'And the mountain on the other side,' she said softly, 'is Jebel Musa in
Morocco, which in ancient times they thought was the other Pillar of Hercules.'
She looked up at him, almost searchingly. 'The end of the known world.'
Kydd felt an
awkwardness, an almost adolescent clumsiness at her closeness, then she moved
away to the easels. She sat at the middle one, delicately perched on the
three-legged portable stool, making a business of unpacking her kit. 'Have you
brought anything with you, Thomas?' she asked, in a brisk, practical manner.
'My silver-lead pencil of course,' Kydd
said, with only a twinge of guilt that it was actually Cockburn's treasured
possession, 'and a quantity of y'r common run o' Cumberlands.' The graphite
from that county provided the whole world with fine black-lead pencils.
Emily had out a curious
tray of colours, which she fastened to the easel. 'I have favoured cake
water-colours,' she said, sounding to Kydd's ears suspiciously professional,
'since I saw what Captain Cook's artist did with those breathtaking views of
Otaheite.' She poured water into a small well, and slung a selection of
well-used brushes in a quiver to one side of the easel. She adjusted her
wide-brimmed sun-hat and addressed her paper with purpose.
Kydd had a sketch book,
unused, that he had acquired from a young midshipman in exchange for the loan
of two clean white stockings. He set it up on the easel and selected a
Cumberland; he would do the fine work with the silver pencil. Aware of
Letitia's furtive glances, he sized the view.