His mind struggled to adjust.
So much in his world would no longer be there, but Renzi's was a fine and noble
mind and it had no place on the gundeck of a ship of war. 'Nicholas, you'll—'
'It
is quite resolved. It will be so.'
'Then — then you'll go
back to y' folks?' Kydd said, trying to hide his sinking spirits.
Renzi paused. 'I
suppose I will. That is the logical conclusion.' They both gazed out on the
blue-green waters. 'You will always be welcome, dear fellow, should you be
passing by.'
'Aye. An' if y' wants
t' see how the Kydd school is progressin' . . .
*
* *
Their keel ploughed a white furrow
through the empty cobalt blue of the Mediterranean. Renzi had become ever more
agreeable, courteously debating as in the old days, delicately plucking a great
truth from a morass of contradictions for Kydd's admiration. They mourned the
passing of Venice, the chaos of war now engulfing the world, the irrelevance of
the individual in the face of colossal hostile forces.
All too soon they
sighted the great Rock of Gibraltar rearing up ahead. Kydd would rejoin his
ship there and face his fate: a shameful horsewhipping at the hands of a
jealous husband. It all seemed so forlorn. His feelings were now a dying ember
of what was before but he would see through what had to come as a man.
Bacchante glided into
Rosia Bay, striking her sails smardy and losing no time in sending her
important guest ashore. Achilles was not at anchor, and Kydd learned that she
was in Morocco, at Tetuan for watering.
The mate-of-the-watch had little to
do in harbour, and after Renzi had seen to the brief ceremony attending the
captain going ashore, he reflected on what had come to pass. There was no doubt
that he had made the right decision regarding his future: he had served his
sentence fully and he could take satisfaction not only in this but in the fact
that he had been not unsuccessful in his adopted profession. Yet the thought of
returning to his inheritance, to the confining, predictable and socially
circumscribed round, was a soul-deadening prospect after vast seascapes, far
shores and the sensory richness of a sea life.
He reviewed the years
of friendship he had enjoyed. Not just the times of shared danger, but golden
memories of a night watch under the stars far out in the Pacific, with a
silver moonpath glittering. Or when he had mischievously taken a contrary stand
on some matter of philosophy simply to have Kydd find within himself "some
sturdy rejoinder, some expression of his undeniable strength of character.
He burned at the
remembrance of the logical outworking of one line of philosophy that, but for
Kydd, would have seen him end his days in the savagery of a South Sea island.
Other instances came to mind, the totality of which led to an inevitable conclusion.
In his core being, he
must still be the tempestuous soul he always had been, and his carefully
nurtured rationality was an insufficient control. He needed Kydd's strength,
his straight thinking to keep him stable and — dare he say? — the regard that
Kydd obviously had for him. Now it was no longer there, only a lowering
bleakness.
Then, breaking through
his thoughts, he saw a figure slowly emerge on deck from the main hatchway.
Rigged once more as a master's mate in breeches and full coat, Kydd's face was
pale and his movements deliberate. He came aft to report, as was his duty.
'Steppin'
ashore, Nicholas.'
'Er,
I wish you well of—'
'That's kind in ye,'
Kydd replied. Both men knew there was nothing Renzi could do in a matter of
honour: the kindest thing was to be absent when the inevitable final scene took
place.
'Then I'll be away,' Kydd said. He
held his head high as he stepped over the bulwarks and down to the boat.
It stroked lazily
towards Ragged Staff steps; Kydd did not look back. Renzi watched until he was
out of sight. A vindictive husband, who wanted to take a full measure of
revenge, could make Kydd pay a terrible price for his foolishness.
Kydd returned before the end of
Renzi's duty watch. The warm dusk had also seen Achilles put back into
Gibraltar. 'Nicholas, do ye have time?'
Renzi's relief was
already on deck so they went to the main-shrouds, out of earshot of the one or
two on deck aft. Renzi looked keenly at Kydd.
'It was th' damnedest thing, Nicholas,'
Kydd said, in a low voice. He looked around suspiciously, but no one was
anywhere near. 'M' letter - y' remember? Well, seems that Consuela - that's Mrs
Mulvany's maid I gave m' letter to — she gets it all wrong 'n' thinks it's her
the letter's for, there bein' no names in it a-tall, an' there she is, waitin'
for me when I gets ashore.'
'So
you've been spared the whip?' Renzi said drily.
Kydd coloured. 'I have - but it's to
cost me five silver dollars to buy the letter back,' he said, 'and when I went
t' Emily's house, her husband was in, invited me t' dinner, even.' His face
fell. 'But when I wanted t' see Emily - say my farewells afore we return to
England — seems she was unwell an' couldn't see me.'
'Unfortunate,' murmured Renzi. Then he
straightened. 'You're sailing tonight.'
'F'r England,' Kydd replied, but there
was no happiness in his voice.
'Bacchante
goes to Lisbon where I rejoin my ship,' Renzi said. 'I — I'm not sanguine that
we shall meet again soon, my dear friend.' It were best the parting were not
prolonged.
'Ye could be sent back
t' Portsmouth f'r a docking,' Kydd said forlornly.
'Yes, that's true,'
Renzi replied sofdy. "Thomas, be true to yourself always, brother, and we
shall see each other — some time.'
'An' you as well,
Nicholas. So it's goodbye, m' friend.' The handshake lingered, then Kydd turned
and went.
Achilles stood out into the broad
Atlantic, questing for the trade westerlies, the reliable streams of air that
blew ceaselessly across thousands of miles of ocean to provide a royal highway
straight to England.
She soon found them,
and shaped course northward. The winds so favourable on her larboard quarter
also formed a swell that came in, deep and regular, under her old-fashioned
high stern. Up and up it rose, angling the rest of the ship over to starboard
and steeply down into the trough ahead. Then, when the swell reached the
mid-point of the vessel, her bow rose, bowsprit clawing the sky, and her stern
fell precipitously away while, with a sudden jerk, she rolled back to larboard.
To a seaman it was instinctive:
the fine sailing in these regular seas was easy, the motion predictable. The
only concern was that the winds might die away to a tedious flat amble.
These spirited seas saw
Achilles at her best, an energetic, seething wake stretching away astern,
flecks of foam driven up by her bluff bows flying aft to wet the lips of the
watch-on-deck with salt, the bright sun casting complex hypnotically moving
shadows of sails and rigging on the decks.
But there were those
aboard who did not appreciate the Atlantic Ocean in springtime. Huddled over
the bulwarks in the waist, sprawling on the foredeck in seasick misery, were
the quota men who had exchanged the debtor's jail for a life at sea and others
who had never had a say in their fate.
The run north was a time
of trial and terror for these land creatures. Forced to overcome their
sea-sickness they learned an eternal lesson of the sea: no matter the bodily
misery, the task is always seen through to its right true end, then belayed and
squared away. There were some who prevailed over their soft origins and won
through to become likely sailors, but there were more who would be condemned
for ever to be no more than brute labourers of the sea.
By contrast the
mariners had their sea ways: the carefully fashioned lids over their oaken grog
tankards against slop from the surging movement, the lithe motion as they got
up from the mess tables and swayed sinuously along in unconscious harmony with
the sea's liveliness, chin-stays down on their tarpaulin hats while aloft.
There were an uncountable number of tiny details, the sum of which set on one
side those who were true sea-dwellers, who knew the sea as a home and not as a
frightening and unnatural perversion of human existence.
In the several days it
took to pass northward along the Portuguese and Spanish coasts and make
landfall on Finisterre,
Achilles
tried hard to return to her character as
a true man-o'-war after a long and corrosive confinement in port.
'God rot 'em, but they're a pawky
lot o' lobcocks!' Poynter, quarter-gunner, glared at the gun's crew standing
sweaty and weary after unaccustomed work at training and side tackle on the
cold iron.
Kydd could only agree.
As master's mate he was essentially deputy to the lieutenant of the gundeck and
had a definite interest in excellence at their gunnery. 'Keep 'em at it,
Poynter, the only way.'
Hands were stood down
from their exercise only when at seven bells the pipe for Tiands to witness
punishment' was made. The familiar ritual brought men up into the sunlight to
congregate in a sullen mass at the forward end of the quarterdeck. Officers
stood on the poop while the gratings were rigged below, in front of the men.
Kydd stood between, and to the side.
This was not a happy
ship: the combination of a God-fearing captain of dour morals and a boatswain
whose contempt for the men found expression in harshness gave litde scope for
compassion.
Kydd glanced far out to
seaward, where a light frigate was keeping loose station on them for the run to
Portsmouth. She made much of being under topsails only to stay with Achilles's
all plain sail. Kydd had known service in a frigate, in his eyes a more
preferable ship, but they seldom rated a master's mate.
'Same ones,' Cockburn
murmured, bringing Kydd's attention back to the flogging and the three pathetic
quota men whose crime was running athwart Welby's hawse yet again. The
captain's bushy grey eyebrows quivered in the wind, his eyes empty and
merciless as he judged and sentenced.
The boatswain's mate
waited for the first man to be seized up to the grating, then stepped across.
He pulled the lash from the red baize bag and measured up to his task. The
marine drummer took position directly above the half-deck, looking enquiringly
at Captain Dwyer. In expectation the rustle of whispers and movement stilled -
but into the silence came a low sobbing, wretched and hopeless.
'Good God!' Kydd
breathed. It was the scraggy little man at the gratings, his pale body heaving
in distress.
The boatswain's mate
stopped in astonishment, then looked at the captain. Dwyer's eyebrow rose, and
he turned to Welby, nodding once.
'Do yer dooty then, Miller.' Welby threw
at his mate in satisfaction. The drum thundered, and stopped. In the sickening
silence the cat swept down, bringing a hopeless squeal of pain. Kydd looked
away. This was achieving nothing, neither individual respect for discipline nor
a cohering deference for justice in common.
Lashes were laid on
pitilessly. The ship's company watched stolidly: this was the way it was, and
no amount of protest could change it.
Kydd scanned the mass
of men. He noticed Farnall, the educated quota man who'd had a run-in with
Boddy when he first came aboard. Farnall's face showed no indication of disgust
or hatred, more a guarded, speculative look.
The contrast between
the grim scenes on the upper deck and the fellowship at the noon meal directly
afterwards brought a brittle gaiety. Grog loosened tongues and the
satisfaction of like company quickly had the crowded mess tables in a buzz of
companionable talk and laughter.
Kydd always took a turn along the main
deck before his own dinner: after overseeing the issue of grog to the messes he
had an implied duty to bear complaints from the men aft, but the real reason
was that he enjoyed the warm feeling of comradeship of the sailors at this
time, and he could, as well, try the temper of the men by their chatter.