Quarterdeck (15 page)

The captain stalked forward to the poop-rail, much as Kydd

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had seen so many times before from the opposite side, looking up as a foremast hand. Now, with the other offi cers, he stood squarely behind him, seeing only the back of his head. Blackly, he saw that his view of proceedings was obscured by the break of the poop, and that therefore on all those occasions before, the offi cers must have seen nothing of the lashes and the agony.

Marines stood to attention at the rails, a drummer-boy at the ready. Lamb stood before his captain, fl anked by the powerful fi gures of two boatswain’s mates. A brief rattle of the drum brought a subdued quiet.

“Articles of War!” barked Houghton. His clerk passed them across. “ ‘Article two: All persons in or belonging to His Majesty’s ships or vessels of war, being guilty of drunkenness, uncleanness or other scandalous actions, in derogation of God’s honour, shall incur such punishment . . . as the nature and degree of their offence shall deserve. ’ ”

He closed the little book. “Carry on, boatswain’s mate.”

The prisoner was led over to the gratings and out of sight, but Kydd—fl ogged himself once—needed no prompting to know what was going on. Stripped and lashed up by the thumbs, Lamb would be in a whirl of fear and shame and, above all, desperately lonely. In minutes his universe would narrow to one of pounding, never-ending torment.

Kydd had seen fl oggings by the score since his own, but this one particularly affected him.

The drum thundered away, then stopped. Kydd’s skin crawled in anticipation of that fi rst, shocking impact. In the breathless quiet he heard the unmistakable hiss of the cat, then the vicious meaty smack and thud as the body was driven against the gratings. A muffl ed, choking sob was all that escaped—Lamb was going to take it like a man.

There was a further volleying of the drum; again the sudden quiet and the sound of the lash. There was no sound from Lamb.

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It went on and on. One part of Kydd’s mind cried out—but another countered with cold reason: no-one had yet found a better system of punishment that was a power ful deterrent yet allowed the offender to return to work. Ashore it was far worse: prison and whipping at the cart’s tail for a like offence—even children could face the gallows for little more.

The lashing went on.

The noon sight complete, the offi cers entered the wardroom for their meal. “Your man took his two dozen well, Gervase,”

Pringle said to Adams, as they sat down. He tasted his wine.

“Quite a tolerable claret.”

Adams helped himself to a biscuit. “I wonder if Canada rides to hounds—’t would be most gratifying to have some decent sport awaiting our return from a cruise. They’ve quite fi ne horsefl esh in Nova Scotia, I’ve heard.”

“Be satisfi ed by the society, old chap. Not often we get a chance at a royal court, if that’s your bag.”

“Society? I spent all winter with my cousin at his pile in Wiltshire. Plenty of your county gentry, but perilously short of female company for my taste.”

Conversation ebbed and fl owed around Kydd. As usual, he kept his silence, feeling unable to contribute, although Renzi had by degrees been drawn up the table and was now entertaining Bryant with a scandalous story about a visit to the London of bagnios and discreet villas. Pringle fl ashed Kydd a single veiled glance and went on to invite Bampton to recount a Barbados inter lude, leaving him only the dry purser as dinner companion.

The afternoon stretched ahead. Kydd knew that Renzi had come to look forward to dispute metaphysics with the erudite chaplain and had not the heart to intervene. Having the fi rst dog-watch, he took an early supper alone and snapped at Tysoe for

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lingering. Melancholy was never far away these days.

He went up on deck early, and approached the master. “Good day to ye, Mr Hambly.”

“An’ you too, sir.”

“Er, do you think this nor’ easterly will stay by us?”

“It will, sir. These are the trades, o’ course.” Hambly was polite but preoccupied.

“I’ve heard y’ can get ice this time o’ the year.”

The master hesitated. “Sir, I have t’ write up the reckonings.”

He touched his hat to Kydd and left.

At four he relieved Bampton, who disappeared after a brief handover. Once more he took possession of the quarterdeck and the ship, and was left alone with his thoughts.

An hour later Renzi appeared. “Just thought I’d take a constitutional before I turn in,” he said, “if it does not inconvenience.”

He sniffed the air. “Kydd, dear fellow, have you ever considered the eternal paradox of free will? Your Oriental philosopher would have much to say, should he consider your tyrannous position at the pinnacle of lordship in our little world . . .”

Kydd’s spirits rose. There had been little opportunity so far to renew their old friendship, and he valued the far-ranging talks that had livened many a watch in the past. “Shall ye not have authority, and allow a false freedom to reign in bedlam?” he said, with a grin, falling into pace next to Renzi.

“Quite so, but Mr Peake advances an interesting notion concerning the co-existence of free will in the ruled that requires my disabusing the gentleman of his patently absurd views.” He stared out pensively to leeward.

Kydd stopped dead. Bitterness welled and took focus. Renzi stopped, concerned. “What is it, brother? Are you—”

“Nothing!” Kydd growled, but did not resume his walk.

“May I—”

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“Your ven’rable Peake is waiting—go and dispute with him if it gives you s’ much pleasure!” Kydd said bitterly.

Renzi said softly, “There is something that ails you. I should be honoured were you to lay it before me, my friend.”

It was not the time or place—but Kydd darted a glance around the quarterdeck. No one was watching. He looked across to the conn team at the wheel and caught the quarter master’s eye, then pointed with his telescope up the ladder to the poop-deck. The man nodded, and Kydd made his way with Renzi up on to the small deck, the furthest aft of all. It was not a popular place, dominated as it was by the big spanker boom ranging out from the mizzen mast and sometimes activity in the fl ag-lockers at the taffrail. They were alone.

Kydd stared out over the wake astern, a ragged white line dissolving to nothing in the distance, ever renewed by their steady motion and the noisy tumbling foam under their counter. His dark thoughts were full but refused to take solid form, and he hesitated. “Nicholas. How c’n I say this? Here I stand, an offi cer.

A King’s offi cer!
More’n I could dare t’ dream of before. And it’s—it’s not as it should be . . .”

Renzi waited patiently, gazing astern.

Kydd continued weakly, “Y’ see, I don’t
feel
an offi cer—it’s as if I was playin’ a role, dressin’ up for the part like a common actor.” The frustrations boiled up and he gulped with emotion. “I know th’ seamanship, the orders an’ things but—Nicholas, look at me! When the others talk t’ each other, they’re talkin’ to the squire, the gentry—their father is lord o’ the manor of some fi ne family, they talk of ridin’ with the hounds, calling on the duke in London, what’s the latest gossip . . .” His voice thickened. “And me, what can I talk about at table without I open m’ mouth and be damned a yokel?”

Renzi murmured encouragement. Paradoxically, this made it all the worse for Kydd, and his frustration took a new path. “It’s

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easy enough f’r you. You’ve been born into it,” he said bitterly,

“lived that way all y’r life. This is why you can talk y’r horses an’

estates ’n’ politics with the others. And have you thought how it is f’r me? I sit there sad as a gib cat, hearin’ all this jabber and feelin’ as out of it as—”

The carpenter interrupted them with his report and Kydd processed the information mechanically. Twenty-four inches in the well: if he left it, the night watch would have to deal with it, manning the big chain pump with all its creaking and banging, rendering sleep impossible for the watch below. He’d see to it before he left the deck.

Renzi spoke quietly: “Tom, do you consider awhile. We all have had to learn the graces, the manners and ways of a gentleman.

It’s just that we’ve had much longer than you to learn. You see?

You
will
learn in time, then—”

“Be damned!” Kydd choked. “Do ye take me f’r a performing monkey? Learn more tricks and bring ’em out in company?

Is this how to be a gentleman?”

Renzi’s face set. “You’re being obnoxious, my friend,” he said softly.

“An’ I’m gettin’ sick o’ your word-grubbin’ ways! You’re no frien’ if all you can say is—”

Renzi turned on his heel. “Nicholas! I—I didn’t mean t’

say . . .” Renzi stopped. Kydd’s hand strayed to his friend’s shoulder but there was no response: Renzi merely turned, folded his arms and looked coldly at him. “I’ve been thinkin’ a lot, Nicholas. About who I am, is the short of it.” He lifted his chin obstinately. “Afore now I’ve been proud t’ be a man-o’-war’s man. Life f’r me has been simple an’ true. Now I’ve gone aft it’s all gone ahoo. I’ve lost m’ bearings—an’ all my friends.”

“Do I take it that you still wish to be an offi cer?”

Kydd looked away for long moments. “Nicholas, you may account me proud or stubborn—but I will not be a tarpaulin to
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pity f’r his plain ways. An offi cer left t’ one side when it comes to society an’ promotion. Gentlemen offi cers laugh at the poor sot behind his back—gets a-fuddle wi’ drink ashore ’cos he don’t know what t’ say. I’d rather be cream o’ the shit than shit o’ the cream, damn it.”

Renzi winced. “You may regret turning your back on fortune.”

“Did I say I was? I just don’t know, is all.”

Renzi coughed gently. “Possibly I am in no small measure to blame in this, dear fellow, but still I feel there is only one logical course, and one you seem to have already rejected. For as long as it will take, you must apply your best and most sincere endeavours to fi tting yourself out for a gentleman offi cer—in look, word and deed. Then, and only then, you may take your rightful place in society, my friend.”

At Kydd’s moody silence Renzi insisted on an answer. “I’ll think on it,” was all he could achieve.

They were heading north to where the Labrador current from the icy fastness of the polar region met the unseen river of warm water driving up from the Caribbean, the Gulf Stream. Such a confl uence was highly likely to result in the navigator’s nightmare: fog.

Ahead there were several days of slow sailing across the mouth of the great St Lawrence before they made the shallower waters of the Grand Banks, then the doubling of Cape Race for St John’s and landfall.

The Halifax-bound leaver division of the convoy had parted, and now the convoy was mainly smaller ships, bringing out supplies for the important cod fi shery, with some larger vessels who would touch at St John’s before making south for the United States. Kydd knew them all by sight now, and it would be strange

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after a month and a half of ocean travelling when their familiar presence was no longer there.

With the wind dropping all the time, the seas lost their busy ruckling of the long, easy swell. There was hardly a gurgle or a splash from the ships’ languorous sliding through the grey water. Quite different from the fetid heat and glassy calms of the doldrums, this was simply the removal of energy from the sea’s motion.

A sudden cry came from the masthead lookout. “
Saaail
hoooo!
Sail t’ the nor’ard, standin’ towards!”

A distinct stir of interest livened the decks. This was much too early for the sloops and gunboats of St John’s they were to meet, and a single sail would be bold to challenge a ship-of-the-line.

“My duty to the captain, and I would be happy to see him on deck,” the offi cer-of-the-watch, Adams, told his messenger, but it was not necessary. Houghton strode on to the quarter deck, grim-faced.

“You’d oblige me, Mr Kydd, should you go aloft and let me know what you see.”

Kydd accepted a telescope from Adams and swung up into the rigging, feeling every eye on him. His cocked hat fell to the deck as he went round the futtock shrouds—he would remember to go without it next time—and to the main topmast top, joining the lookout who politely made room for him.

“Where away?” Kydd asked, controlling his panting. Breaking the even line of the horizon was a tiny smudge of paleness against the grey—right in their path. He brought up the telescope. It was diffi cult to control: even in the calm sea the slow roll at this height was suffi cient to throw off the sighting. He wedged himself against the topgallant mast, feet braced against the cross-trees, then got his fi rst good look at the pale
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pyramid of sail head on. His heart jumped. The glass wandered and the small image blurred across.

“What do you see?” Houghton bellowed from below.

Kydd swept the telescope to each side of the pyramid. Nothing.

Tantalisingly he caught brief glimpses of it, now getting sharper and larger, but there was never enough time to fi x on it. He prepared to lean over to hail the deck, then noticed wan sunlight shafting down close to it. He would give it one last try.

A glitter of light moved across the sea towards it. He raised his telescope—and saw it transformed. “Deck
hooo!
An ice island!”

The whole incident had gone unnoticed by the convoy, for the height-of-eye of
Tenacious
’s lofty masts ensured she saw it well before any other, but all were able to take their fi ll of the majestic sight as they passed hours later. Up close, it was not all pure white: there were startling pale blues, greens and dirty blotches—