The Privateer's Revenge (11 page)

But Kydd was not of a mind to communicate his motives to anyone . . .

C
HAPTER 6

I
T WAS GALLING IN THE EXTREME
.
Because of the gravity of the situation Renzi had overcome his scruples and resolved to warn Kydd of the ugly mood that was building, the savage opinions he had overheard and in charity forewarning him of worse to come. He had to make one last try to get through to Kydd. He entered the cabin after a polite knock and waited.

It was difficult to broach after Kydd's wild triumph, and Renzi controlled himself with effort. “If you only knew what coming to you like this is costing me in violation of my sensibilities—”

“Then you're free t' go. An' why you should come an' waste my time with y'r mess-deck catblash I can't think,” Kydd threw over his shoulder, then resumed scratching away with his quill.

“May I know at least why we're at anchor here instead of Guernsey?”

The other vessels had retreated to the security of St Peter Port while they were again moored off Chausey Rocks, with a tired and fractious crew.

Kydd looked up, expressionless. “Since y' ask, I'm t' keep a distant watch on Granville f'r a few days t' see what they'll do.” His features had aged so: no sign of animation, none of the interest in things round him, only this dull, blinkered obsession with duty.

“Do you not think it wise to apprise your ship's company of this? They've been sorely tested recently, I believe, and now to be robbed of their rest . . .” The heartless dismissal of the old lady's death as the fortune of war had upset many, and the ferocious solo altercation at the harbour mouth had others questioning Kydd's sanity.

“They'll do their duty,” Kydd said shortly, and picked up his pen again.

Renzi drew breath sharply and blurted, “Good God above! The ship is falling apart around you and still you won't see! The men need leadership—someone they can trust, that they may look up to, believe in, not a grief-stricken machine who spouts nothing but duty and—”

Kydd's fist crashed on the table. “Rot you f'r a prating dog!” He shot to his feet. “Who are you t' tell me about leading men?” he said. “As we c'n all see, you've left th' world t' others an' taken refuge in y'r precious books.”

Cold with fury, Renzi bit out, “Then, as it's clear you no longer value my services or my friendship, I shall be leaving the ship in Guernsey. Good day to you, sir!” He stormed out, pushing past the boatswain who had been about to knock. Kydd stood, breathing rapidly and gazing after the vanished Renzi.

“Um, sir?” Purchet said uncertainly. “It's b' way of bein' urgent, like.”

“What is it, then?” he said.

Purchet stepped inside, closing the door. “M' duty t' tell ye, sir,” he mumbled, then stopped as if recollecting himself.

“Tell me what, Mr Purchet?” Kydd snapped.

The boatswain took a deep breath. “In m' best opinion, sir, the men are no longer reliable.”

Kydd tensed. “Are ye telling me they're in mutiny, Mr Purchet?” Everything from this point forward, even an opinion or words spoken in haste, might well be next pronounced in the hostile confines of a court-martial.

“I cannot say that, sir.”

“Then what?”

“They's a-whisperin', thinkin' as I can't hear 'em,” he said gravely. The boatswain's cabin in the small sloop was as thin-walled as Renzi's. “I don't take mind on it, usually, but as it's s' bad . . .”

“Tell me, if y' please,” Kydd prodded.

“Er, I have t' say it how I hears it,” Purchet said.

“Go on.”

“Well, one o' the hands has it as how you're out o' your wits wi' grievin' an' says as any doctor worth th' name would have ye out o' the ship. An' they thinks as how this makes ye not responsible, an' therefore it's not right fer them t' take y'r orders.”

“An' the others?”

“Sir, they say how as t' prove it, they seen ye change, like, fr'm their cap'n in Plymouth t' a hard-horse Tartar who doesn't hear 'em any more—them sayin' it, o' course,” he added hastily. “They seen ye at Granville, th' last fight, an' say that if ye're careless o' your own life, what's theirs worth?”

Kydd waited, his face stony. “Anything else?”

“Why, sir, this afternoon, when young Jacko said them things y' heard, most would say he'd had his grog an' was talkin' wry, like, no need t' seize 'im in irons like that. An' they're a-feared what ye'll do when he comes up afore ye tomorrow.”

“And this's y'r mutiny?”

“There's a gallows deal more, sir, as it's not fit f'r ye t' hear.” He looked at Kydd defiantly. “I bin in a mutiny once, an' knows the signs. All it wants is f'r one chuckle-headed ninny t' set 'em off wi' hot words, an' then—”

“Thank 'ee, Mr Purchet. Y' did th' right thing,” Kydd said formally.

The boatswain shifted awkwardly and mumbled, “Jus' wanted t' warn ye, like.”

As had Renzi.

“I'll—I'll think on it,” was all Kydd could manage.

“Then I'll be away for'ard,” Purchet said, with quiet dignity.

Kydd sat down slowly, cold with shock. Since he had first won command those few years ago in Malta, he had taken satisfaction that his origins before the mast gave him a particular insight into the thinking of his men, but now—a mutiny?

Deep down he knew the reason and it was the one he feared most.

To be brutally honest with himself, he would have to admit that he was confronting personal failure. His seizing on
duty
as the answer to his pain, a sure and trustworthy lifeline out of the pit of despair that he had grasped so eagerly; this had secured its object, the continuance of his professional functioning, but at grievous cost. By degrees it had changed him, become the master of his soul and now ruled his every action, turning him into a hard-hearted, blinkered automaton.

He balled his fists. It had been too easy—a way of keeping the world and its hurts at bay, but also an excuse not to think. And, above all, not to face things. He paced fretfully about the cabin: If it was not the answer, then what was?

The decanters were in the sideboard. He hesitated, then took out the rum. Its fire steadied him but this was no remedy. That could only be to face up to his pain, the grief . . . memories.

Since that terrible day he had instinctively shied from their immediacy. Was he ready to deal with them yet? A feeling of inevitability crept over him. He was not blessedly logical, as Renzi was, but something drew him irresistibly to focus on just one thing: the slight but constant pressure at his breast, always so warm against his skin. The locket.

He had worn it next to his heart since the day when Rosalynd's silhouette had been fashioned into a miniature—and he had never dared look upon it since he had lost her. He drew it out slowly, tenderly. For a brief moment he held it tight in his hand, fighting the flood of images, then snapped it open.

Her likeness: Rosalynd. In black crêpe paper, now a little crinkled. He held the trinket reverently, trying to relive the time when it had been new. The cheap gilt finish had now worn through to the bright steel at the edges and in places there were specks of rust, but no matter. What he held in his hands was Rosalynd, his sweetheart.

He gulped as his eyes misted, but another thought intruded, growing in strength and insistence. This was
not
Rosalynd. It was merely her likeness. It was tarnishing and fading and would eventually disintegrate. It was not her: she no longer existed in this world—except in his memory, and there she would never fade.

He knew then what he had to do. He crossed to the stern windows, opened the centre one and swung it wide. Outside there was impenetrable blackness but with it the clean tang of salt, seaweed and waves soughing mournfully against
Teazer
's counter. With only a brief hesitation he hurled the locket into the night.

It was done. With the act came a feeling of release; lovers separated by distance would eventually meet again, but when separated by time they would not. Rosalynd was of the past. There was now no need for
any
elaborate personal defences: she was safely preserved in his memory, and he had his duties to his present existence. Renzi
had
been right but it had taken the threat of mutiny to bring him to—

Mutiny! The reality flooded in and his mind snapped to full alertness. He did not fear a bloody uprising so much as the certainty that the moment an order was disobeyed, a scornful or threatening word uttered, nothing short of a court-martial and a noose at the yardarm would satisfy an Admiralty sensitive to the slightest evidence of disaffection or rebellion in the fleet. Long after the corpses were cut down
Teazer
would bear the stain of dishonour—and it would be entirely the fault of her captain.

It demanded action—and quickly. What should he do? Order the marines to stand to, heading off any moves now under way? Wake Standish and have him, with the warrant officers, armed and aft? This would stop any mutiny in its tracks but would immediately throw the ship into two camps set implacably against each other.

He couldn't do it. He would lose any regard that still remained in his men and that was too great a price to pay. Then what? Do nothing? That was not possible. Instead he would appeal directly to them. On a personal level, but not as a supplicant: as their captain. And not on the quarterdeck in the usual way . . .

His servant Tysoe had taken to keeping out of the way so Kydd went to his sleeping cabin and there found his full dress coat with its Nile medals and pulled it on. Clapping on his gold-laced cocked hat he made his way in the darkness to the hatchway.

As he descended he could hear the usual babble of talk and guffaws issuing from the mess-deck; it was a strong custom of the Service that the captain would never intrude on the men in their own territory in their own time, still less do so without warning— but this was no idle visit.

His appearance at the foot of the ladder was met with an astonished silence, men twisting at their tables and the nearest scrabbling to distance themselves. The stench of so many bodies in the confined space, with the reek of rush dips guttering in their dishes, caught Kydd at the back of the throat: it had been long since he had endured these conditions, inescapable as they were for sailors in a small ship-of-war.

Standing legs a-brace, he placed his hat firmly under his arm and faced them. He said nothing, his hard gaze holding first one, then another. The dim light picked up the gold lacing of his uniform, and when he spoke, he had their entire attention.

“Teazers!” he began. “I won't keep you f'r long. Now, one of y'r number came aft t' see me, thought fit t' lay an information afore me as was necessary f'r me t' know.”

Furtive glances were thrown and there were awkward shuffles: was there a spy in their midst, bearing tales to the quarterdeck?

“He was right t' do so. F'r what he said was concernin' y'r own captain. He said t' me that there's those who'd believe I'm not sailin' square wi' ye since I had m' sad loss—that I'm toppin' it th' tyrant t' no account.” He paused: apart from the lazy creaking of a ship at anchor there was utter stillness.

“This I'll say to ye. I took aboard all that was said, an' have considered it well. An' my conclusion is, if there's anything that stands athwart
Teazer
's bows in bein' the finest fightin' ship in the Navy then, s' help me, I won't rest until I've done something about it. I'll not see m' men discontented, an' I won't, y' have m' word on't.”

In the flickering light of 'tween decks it was difficult to make out expressions but the silence told its own story. “I give ye this promise: at th' end o' the month, any man wants t' ship out o'
Teazer
c'n shift his berth to another. An' that same day, needs o' the Service permittin'. Thank 'ee—an' good night.”

He made his exit. Behind him the silence dissolved into a chaos of talk. About to mount the companionway he hesitated, then turned to a tiny cabin and knocked. Renzi appeared and regarded him. In a low voice Kydd said, “I'd be obliged, Nicholas, should ye sup wi' me tonight. There's some things I need t' get off m' chest.”

It wasn't until well into the second bottle of wine that Renzi allowed himself to thaw and listen courteously to Kydd's earnest explanations. “Nicholas, all I could see then was that if'n I wanted t' keep from hurtin' all I needed was t' lay hold on duty an' be damned t' all else!”

“Duty taken at its widest interpretation, I'd hazard,” Renzi said drily. “To include a zeal touching on engagement with the King's enemies that's a caution to us all.” He looked across at Kydd. “Tell me, my friend—for it's a matter much discussed below—was it an unholy passion to prevail or the baser impulse to suicide that had you throw
Teazer
across the harbour mouth? Do tell. If I might remind you, it did not seem you were of a mind to communicate your motives at the time.”