Kydd started off
down the rutted street, which passed along the boundary of the garrison. A
crazy web of litde alleys intersected it and a stench of sewerage and decay was
on the air. Blue Town was not the kind of area to be graced with street signs.
The barefooted urchins were no help, and his shoes spattered mud over his coat.
As the settlement thinned into marshland Kydd saw the road wind away across the
marshes into a scatter of far-off buildings he assumed was Sheerness town.
It was time to return; he had tried. He
trudged back, irritated. At the gate, the sentry stopped him. 'Oi remember,
naow. What yer wants is Queen Street on th' Breakers.'
The other sentry
tut-tutted wisely. 'Shoulda known.' At Kydd's look he added hastily, 'That's
all them 'ulks a-floatin' out there - proper town they has on 'em, streets an'
all.'
There were prison hulks
in Portsmouth for prisoners-of-war and the assembling of convicts for the
miserable voyage to Botany Bay, but Kydd had never heard of ships being used as
formal accommodation. On looking closer he was impressed: built over with
roofs, chimneys everywhere and commodious bridges between them, in the evening
light they were a curious species of goblin rookeries, neat and well cared-for.
He mounted the first bridge
out to a two-decker: the whole upper-deck was built over, all guns had been
removed and a row of 'houses' lined the sides of the 'street'. Each house had
tubs of plants, white-painted pebbles, picked out window-frames, and in front
of him was a scarlet and green street sign: 'George Street'. A cheery soul told
him that Queen Street was in the next vessel, and Kydd passed across, daring a
peep into one window where places were being laid for an evening meal in a room
as snug as any to be seen on dry land.
The message gave no
street number, but there were painted name-boards on each door. Kydd found one
marked 'Malkin' and knocked.
The door squeaked open
and a young woman appeared, in a pinafore and mob cap. 'Oh!' she said faintly,
at Kydd's uniform.
Her blue eyes had a
softness that was most fetching. 'Er, Thomas Kydd, master's mate o' Achilles' he
said gendy. 'An' you must be Miss Kitty Malkin?'
Her hand flew to her
mouth. 'Yes, I am, sir,' she said. 'It's about Edward!' she blurted. 'He's in
trouble, isn't he, an' can't get ashore?' The eyes looked at Kydd appealingly.
'It's been a long time, sir, to be away . . .'
'C'n I speak to y'r father, if y'
please?' Something about his manner alarmed her. 'Whatever has t' be said to m'
father can be said to me, sir.' Kydd hesitated.
'Then please t' step
inside, sir.' Kitty opened the door wide to allow Kydd to enter. It was a tiny
but neat and pleasing front room, rugs on the floor, sideboard displaying
treasured china and some bold portraits on the wall; Kydd thought he could
recognise Ned Malkin in one set about with crossed flags and mermaids. A
polished table was half set for an evening meal — there was only one place.
'Pray be seated, sir,' she said, her
eyes never leaving his. The two cosy chairs were close to each other and Kydd
sat uncomfortably.
'It's kind in you
to come visit,' she said. Her hands were in her lap, decorous and under
control.
'Ned
- a taut hand,' he began.
'Is he in y'r watch,
sir?' she asked. It was odd to hear a woman familiar with sea terms.
'No, but I've
seen him in the tops in a blow, right good seaman .. .' Kydd tailed off.
She picked up on his
hesitation. Her face went tight. 'Somethin's happened to Ned, hasn't it?' She
sat bolt upright, her hands twisting. 'I c'n see it in your face, Mr Kydd.'
Kydd mumbled something, but she cut it
short. 'Y' must tell me — please.'
'I'm grieved t' have to
tell ye, Miss Kitty, but Ned's no more.'
Her face whitened in shock. 'H-how did
it happen? Fever? But he was always so strong, Ned . . .'
'It was a tumble fr'm a yardarm at
night.' There was no need to go into details; the utter darkness, everything
done by feel up in the surging rigging, the hand going out and clutching a
false hold and a lurch into nothing until the shock of the sea. Then, seeing
the ship's lights fade into the night and the lonely horror of realising that,
no matter how hard the struggle, the end must surely come — minutes or long
hours.
'Wh-when?'
'Jus' two nights afore
we made soundings,' he said. No more than a week or so ago, Ned Malkin could be
seen on the mess-deck enjoying his grog and a laugh, spinning a yarn on deck on
a night watch . . .
For
a long while she stared at him, then her face sagged. She glanced just once at
the picture on the wall. 'Thank you f'r coming, sir — many wouldn't,' she said,
in a small voice.
The moment hung,
stretching out in a tense silence that seemed to go on for ever. Faint sounds
penetrated from the outside. Kydd cleared his throat, and made to rise. 'Ah,
must return on board,' he muttered.
She rose as well, but
came between him and the door. 'Can I offer you refreshment, er, some tea?'
There was pleading in her eyes, and Kydd knew he couldn't leave her to her
grief just then.
'Oh, a dish o' tea
would be mos' welcome, Miss Kitty.'
She didn't move, however. Her white face
was fixed on his. 'Since Mama died, m' father went back t' Bristol to work for
his brother.' He wondered why she was telling him. 'An' here I work in the
dockyard — I sew y'r flags 'n' bunting, y' see. I like it, being near th' ships
and sea — to see Ned sail away t' his adventures . ..' Her eyes suddenly
brimmed, then the tears came, hot and choking, tearing at Kydd's composure.
He stood, but found himself reaching for
her, pulling her close, patting her and murmuring meaningless phrases; he
understood now the single place at table. She was on her own — and asking for
human comfort.
Night had fallen, and Kydd could
see lights on other vessels through the curtained gunport. Her arm was still
over his chest as they lay precariously together on the small bedstead. Kitty's
fine blonde hair tumbled over his shoulder; her female form discernible under
the coverlet.
She
murmured something indistinct, turning to Kydd and reaching for him. He
responded gendy, wondering at the dream-like transition from comforting to
caring, to intimacies of the heart and then the body.
So instinctive had it
been that there was no need for modesty as she rose, pulling her gown around
her and trimming the small light. She turned to face him. 'I'd take it kindly,
Thomas, if you'd tell me more about Ned an' Achilles? she said.
'A moment, Kitty, if y' please.' Kydd
swung out, retrieving his shirt and trousers, needing their dignity. Achilles is
a ship-of-the-line—'
'A
sixty-four.'
'But not a big 'un, so
we gets to see parts o' the world the fleets never do.'
'Ned says . .. said,
that Achilles was bigger 'n' any frigate, could take on anything that swims
outside th' thumpers in a fleet.'
'That's in the right of
it, but it means we get more convoy duty than any, 'cos o' that.' He stopped.
'Er, Kitty, d'ye think y' could get some scran alongside?' he asked sheepishly.
He had not eaten since the morning.
'O' course, m' dear,'
she said brightly, then paused. 'As long as ye're back aboard b' daybreak,
you'll be safe 'n' snug here.' There was only the slightest inflection of a
question.
'Aye,
that I will, thank ye.'
When Kydd went aboard Achilles the next
morning it was drizzling with a cutting north-easter. Liberty for all had been
granted the previous evening so there was no
need to explain his absence,
although Binney regarded him quizzically as he reported.
He hunched in his oilskins as the rain
drummed, watching a bedraggled and sullen group of sailors bring down a topmast
from aloft. Normally a seamanlike evolution, now it was an awkward and sloppy
display from a fuddled crew. The refined tones of the first lieutenant through
his speaking trumpet crackled with irritability, but a hastily applied hitch on
rain-slick timber might slip — then the spar would spear down and there would
be death in the morning.
After a false start,
the fore topmast lay safely on deck, and Kydd was able to dismiss the wet men.
He stayed on the deserted fore-deck; although the women had been sent ashore
the mess-decks were just as noisy and he needed solitude for a while, thinking
of what had passed.
There was no question:
Kitty understood - they both did — that what had happened was spontaneous,
impetuous, even, and nothing could be implied in the situation.
His eyes focused
on a boat approaching in the drizzle. Most bumboats were huddled into the
ship's side under their tarpaulins, but this one was a naval longboat, four
oars and a couple of seaman passengers aft. Probably more ship-visiting, but
Kydd was uneasy: these were not jovial shipmates but a sober, purposeful crew.
They came aboard,
quietly removing their hats and reporting to the officer-of-the-watch before
moving quickly below. That this was shortly before the noon dinner — and issue
of grog — was probably not of consequence, but with the main battle fleet in
open mutiny in Spithead, nothing was above suspicion.
As usual, at the meal,
he made it his duty to take a turn round the mess-tables, available, but
listening, alert for trouble. The fife had played 'Nancy Dawson' with its
cheery tumpity-tump on a drum for the issue of grog, the sailors had welcomed
the arrival of rum-darkened mess kids, and the high-point of the day began.
But there was something
amiss — a jarring note; Kydd couldn't sense what it was. He saw Farnall, the
educated quota man, whom he sensed would always be on the fringes of trouble.
Kydd walked over to his table - the same wary silence, the faces following him.
He passed by, his easy 'What cheer?' to Lofty Webb only brought a frightened
swivelling of eyes.
He reached the end of
the mess-deck. Out of the corner of his eye Kydd saw movement, and turned.
Farnall's table sat motionless, looking at him. A piece of paper slowly
fluttered to the deck. No one moved.
Talk died at nearby
tables. He picked up the paper. It was badly printed and well creased, but it
began boldly: 'Brother Tars! Who hath given all for the cause of yr countrys
freedom! Now is the time ...' Kydd's eyes lifted slowly, a red flush building.
'Whose is this?' he said thickly. The mutinous tract must have been brought
aboard from someone in touch with the Spithead mutineers.
Not a man stirred. They
met his eyes steadily, neither flinching nor wavering, yet possession of a
seditious document was sufficient evidence of treasonable intent whatever the
circumstance. Then it dawned upon him: they had wanted him to read it. Cold
anger replaced his uncertainty. 'Y' heard y'r captain — take notice o' this
jabberknowl an' ye'll all be dancin' at the yardarm afore y' knows it.' In the
sea service, mutiny was the one unforgivable crime, a swift court-martial and
death a sure end for the offender. To see shipmates stark and still at the end
of a rope for a moment's foolishness would be heartbreaking.
He glared at them, and met nothing but a
stony gaze. His duty was plain and explicit: he should seize the culprit and
haul him aft for just punishment. But which one was it? He hesitated. He went
to rip up the paper but something stopped him and he stuffed it lamely into his
waistcoat.
'Ye're all under m' eye fr'm this hour.
That's you, Nunky, an' Lofty — you too, Farnall, 'n' don't think t' practise
y'r sea-lawyer ways aboard Achilles. We're true man-o'-war's men in this
barky.' He had the satisfaction of seeing Jewell's eyes flicker and a quick
look of appeal from Webb to Farnall.
Kydd stalked away
in the tense silence, hearing the low, urgent rumble of talk behind him. His
mind cooled: it was clear that agents of the Spithead mutineers were at work
aboard Achilles. He must bring this to the quarterdeck; but curiosity made him
head first for the master's sea cabin, which he knew was empty as Eastman was
ashore. Guiltily, he drew out the paper to read.