Quarterdeck (26 page)

“Dick Parker. Now there was a prime hand, don’ ye think?

Saw what was goin’ on, but concerns hisself with the men, not th’ gentry. Sorely missed, is he.”

Kydd drew back. Was Dobbie simply trying to ingratiate himself, or was this a direct attempt at drawing Kydd into some
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crazy plot? Anxiety and foreboding fl ooded in. Either way this had to be stopped.

“Enough o’ this nonsense. Where I came from before I went t’

the quarterdeck is no concern o’ yours, Dobbie. Pay y’r respects to an offi cer an’ carry on.” Even in his own ears it rang false, lacking in authority.

Dobbie looked relaxed, a lazy smile spreading across his face.

Kydd glanced uneasily about; no one was within earshot. “Did ye not hear? I said—”

“Me mates said t’ me, ‘An’ who’s this offi cer then, new-rigged an’ has the cut o’ the jib of the fo’c’sle about ’im?’ What c’n I say?” Dobbie was confi dent and as watchful as a snake. “I keeps m’ silence, ’cos I knows you has t’ keep discipline, an’ if they catches on that you is th’ Tom Kydd as was alongside Dick Parker all the time—”

“What is it ye want?” Kydd snapped.

Dobbie picked up the end of the fall and inspected its whipping, then squinted up at Kydd. “Ah, well. I was wonderin’—you was in deep. Not a delegate, but ’twas your scratch what was clapped on all them vittlin’ papers, I saw yez. Now don’t y’ think it a mort strange that so many good men went t’ the yardarm but Mr Tom Kydd gets a pardon? Rest gets the rope, you gets th’ King’s full pardon ’n’ later the quarterdeck.” The lazy smile turned cruel. “We gets t’ sea, the gennelmen in the fo’c’sle hear about you, why, could go hard f’r a poxy spy . . .”

Kydd fl ushed.

Dobbie tossed aside the rope and folded his arms. “Your choice, Mr Tom Kydd. You makes m’ life sweet aboard—I’m agoin’ t’ be in your division—or the fo’c’sle hands are goin’ to be getting some interestin’ news.”

“Damn you t’ hell! I didn’t—” But Dobbie turned and padded off forward.

Kydd burned with emotion. It was utterly beyond him to have

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spied treacherously on his shipmates as they had fought together for their rights. He was incapable of such an act. But the men of the fo’c’sle would not know that. Dobbie was one of them, and he was claiming to have been with Kydd at the mutiny and to have the full story. Unable to defend himself in person, Kydd knew there was little doubt whom they would believe.

The consequences could not be more serious. He would not be able to command these men, that much was certain; the captain would quickly recognise this and he would be fi nished as an offi cer. But it might be worse: a dark night, quiet watch and a belaying pin to the head, then quickly overside . . .

And the wardroom—if they believed he owed his advancement to spying and betrayal, what future had he among them?

It was incredible how matters had reached such a stand so quickly. He would have to move fast, whatever his course. The obvious action was to submit. It had defi nite advantages. Nothing further would happen because it was in Dobbie’s interest to keep his leverage intact. And it would be simple: Kydd as an offi cer could easily ensure Dobbie’s comfortable existence.

The other tack would be to brazen it out. But Kydd knew this was hopeless: he would be left only with his pride at not yielding to blackmail, and that was no choice at all.

He yearned for Renzi’s cool appraisal and logical options: he would fi nd the answers. But he was in Newfoundland. Kydd was not close to Adams and the others: he would have to face it alone.

His solitary, haunted pacing about the upper deck did not seem to attract attention, and two hours had passed before he found his course of action.

Kydd knew the lower deck, its strengths and loyalties as well as its ignorance; its rough justice and depth of sentiment could move men’s souls to achieve great things—or stir them to passionate vindictiveness. He would now put his trust in them, an
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unshakeable faith that he, even as an offi cer, could rely on their sense of honour, fairness and loyalty.

The afternoon ebbed to a pallid dusk, and the hands secured, then went below for grog and supper. Kydd waited until they were in full fl ow. Then he went down the after hatchway to the gun-deck and paused at the foot of the ladder.

The mess-tables were rigged and the usual warm conviviality of a meal-time, enlivened by rum, rose noisily from the tables between the rows of guns. A few curious looks came his way, but in the main seamen were more interested in the gossip of the day and he was ignored.

Methodically, he removed his cocked hat. Then he took off his lieutenant’s uniform coat and laid it carefully over his arm.

By this time he had the attention of the nearest, who looked at him in astonishment.

He paced forward slowly, and with terrible deliberation. One by one the tables lapsed into an amazed silence, which grew and spread until the whole gun-deck fell into an unnatural quiet and men craned forward for a better view.

Kydd continued his walk, his face set and grim, eyes fi xed forward in an unblinking stare. He was either right to trust—

or he had lost everything. He passed the great jeer capstan, the mighty trunk of the mainmast, the main hatch gratings, his measured tread now sounding clear and solemn.

He halted abreast the fore capstan, his eyes still fi xed forward. Slowly his gaze turned to one side: Dobbie sat, transfi xed, at the mess by number-fi ve gun. Kydd marched over. Not a man moved. He held Dobbie with his eyes, dropping his words into the silence. “I’ll be waiting for ye—the Mizzen tavern. At two, tomorrow.” Then he wheeled about and began the long walk back down the silent gun-deck.

• • •

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In the privacy of his cabin Kydd buried his face in his hands. As an offi cer there was no question of how to deal with a slur on one’s honour: a duel was the inevitable result. Dobbie was not a gentleman, therefore Kydd could not demean himself in calling him out. But this was a matter for the lower deck: different rules applied. By now the news would be already around the ship. It was too late for him to back away—and also for Dobbie.

Dobbie was big and a bruiser, well used to a mill. Kydd could take care of himself, but this was another matter. Of a surety he would be the loser, in all probability suffering a battering and disfi guring injury. But the result would be worth it. Never more would any man question his honour or integrity: Dobbie’s word would be hollow against that of a man who had set aside the power and privileges that were his by right to defend his honour in the traditional way.

Kydd had no fear of it coming to the ear of the captain—or any other offi cer, for that matter. It would be common currency on the mess-decks and every seaman and petty offi cer would know of it, but it was their business and, as with so many other things, the quarterdeck never would hear of it.

He slept well: there was little to be gained in brooding on hypo thetical events of the next day and in any case there was nothing he could do about it now that events had been set in train.

As he moved about the ship there were surreptitious looks, curious stares and a few morbid chuckles. He went below to fi nd his servant. “Er, Tysoe, there is something of a service I want you t’ do for me.”

“Sir, don’t do it, sir, please, I beg,” Tysoe said, with a low, troubled voice. “You’re a gentleman, sir, you don’t have to go mixing with those villains.”

“I have to, an’ that’s an end to it.”

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Tysoe hesitated, then asked unhappily, “The service, sir?”

“Ah—I want you to fi nd a fo’c’sle hand who c’n lend me a seaman’s rig f’r this afternoon. Er, it’ll be cleaned up after.”

“Sir.” But Tysoe did not leave, disconsolately shuffl ing his feet. “Sir, I’m coming with you.”

“No.” Kydd feared he would be instantly discovered and probably roughed up: he could not allow it. “No, but I thank ye for your concern.”

There was a fi tful cold drizzle when Kydd stepped into the boat, which gave him an excuse to wear a concealing oilskin. Poulden was stroke; he had gruffl y volunteered to see Kydd through to the Mizzen tavern, but made determined efforts not to catch his eye as he pulled strongly at his oar.

They landed at King’s Slip. Without a word, Kydd and Poulden stepped out and the boat shoved off. The waterfront was seething with activity and they pushed through fi rmly to Water Street.

It was lined with crude shanties and pothouses; raw weathered timbers abuzz with noise, sailors and women coming and going, the stink of old liquor and humanity in the air. A larger hostelry sported a miniature mast complete with upper yards, jutting out from a balcony. “The Fore, sir,” said Poulden, self-consciously.

“We has three inns; the Fore, the Main, ’n’ the Mizzen, which, beggin’ yer pardon, we understands t’ be respectively the wild-est, gayest an’ lowest in Halifax.” Hoisted on the Fore’s mast was the sign of a red cockerel, a broad hint to the illiterate of the pleasures within.

Kydd’s heart thudded, but he was angry with Dobbie—not so much for trying such a scheme but for the slur on Kydd’s character. His anger focused: whatever the outcome of the next few hours he would see to it that he left marks on Dobbie.

They swung down a side-street to see a crowd of jostling men outside an entrance with a small mizzen mast. “Sir, gotta leave

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ye now.” Poulden returned the way he came, leaving Kydd on his own. His mouth dried. Screeches of female laughter and roars of appreciation at some unseen drunken feat fi lled the air. As a young seaman he’d been in places like this, but he had forgotten how wild and lawless they were.

“There he is! Told yer so!” Heads turned and Kydd was engulfed with a human tide that jollied him inside, all red faces and happy anticipation. A black-leather can was shoved at him, its contents spilling down his front. “No, thank ye,” he said quickly, thrusting it away.

Women on the stairs looked at him with frank curiosity, some with quickening interest at his strong, good looks. A hard- featured seaman and two others tried to push through.

“Gangway, y’ scrovy bastards, an’ let a man see who it is then,”

he grumbled.

“Akins, Master o’ the Ring. I have t’ ask, are ye Lootenant Kydd an’ no other?” The taphouse broke into excited expectancy at Kydd’s reply. He recognised both of the others: Dean, boatswain’s mate of
Tenacious,
standing with brutal anticipation, and Laffi n, petty offi cer of the afterguard, wearing a pitying expression. There were others from
Tenacious,
their images barely registering on Kydd’s preternaturally concentrated senses.

“Are ye willing t’ stand agin Bill Dobbie, L’tenant, the fi ght t’

be fair ’n’ square accordin’ t’ the rules?” There was a breathy silence. Bare-knuckle fi ghting was brutal and hard, but there were rules—the Marquess of Queensberry had brought some kind of order to the bloody business.

“Aye, I’m willing.”

The pothouse erupted. “Fight’s on, be gob, an’ me bung’s on Dobbie.”

This was going to be a legendary match to be talked of for years. The crush was stifl ing, but Laffi n cleared the way with his fi sts and they passed through the damp sawdust and sweaty,
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shoving humanity to the sudden cool of the outside air. It was a small inner courtyard with rickety weathered buildings on all four sides. In the centre, sitting on a standard seaman’s chest, was Dobbie.

Kydd stopped as the signifi cance of the chest crowded in on him. This was not going to be a fi ght according to Queensberry’s rules: this was a traditional way of the lower deck to settle the worst of grudges—across a sea-chest. They would sit facing each other over its length, lashed in place, to batter at each other until one yielded or dropped senseless.

To back away now was impossible. He had to go through with it. He took in Dobbie’s deep chest and corded arms. His fi sts were massive and strapped up with darkened, well-used leather.

There was no doubt that Kydd was in for heavy punishment.

The men and women in the courtyard were shouting obscene encouragement to Dobbie, urging him to take it out on an offi -

cer while he had the chance. A hoot of laughter started up at the back of the crowd and Kydd’s servant was propelled to the front.

“Tysoe!”

“Sir, sir—” He had a bundle clutched to his chest, and his frightened eyes caught Kydd’s. “I came, sir, I—I came—”

“He’s come t’ drag Tom Cutlass home after, like,” chortled Dean. It was the fi rst Kydd had heard of any lower-deck nick-name—from the desperate time fi ghting in the boat when his sword had broken and he had taken up a familiar cutlass.

Strangely, it strengthened his resolve.

“Don’t worry, Tysoe, I’ll see ye right!” Kydd said forcefully, above the crowd.

The laughter died as the men sensed the time had come. Kydd looked directly at Dobbie, who returned the look with a glittering-eyed malignity. “Get on wi’ it, yer sluggards!” screamed one

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woman, her cries taken up by the baying circle of men. Scowling, Akins turned to Kydd. “Get y’r gear off, then, mate.”

Kydd pulled off his shirt, feeling the icy cold wind playing on his bare torso. There was a stir of amazed comment as the stretched and distorted scars criss-crossing his back were recognised for what they were: a relic of the long-ago agony of lashes from a cat-of-nine-tails at a grating. The woman’s screeches diminished and the crowd subsided.

Laffi n produced cords and Kydd took his place at the other end of the chest, feeling the feral impact of Dobbie’s presence, his heart racing at the carnage about to be wrought. The ropes cut into his legs, but his eyes rose to lock on Dobbie’s.