"Cos there's worse,'Jones said
softly. The others held still. 'Not more'n a coupla weeks ago, we gets word
fr'm the north, the inshore frigates off Brest.' He paused. 'The French —
they're out!' There was a stirring around the table.
'Not yer usual, not at all— this is
big, forty sail an' more, seventeen o' the line an' transports, as would be
carryin' soldiers an' horses an' all.'
He sought out their
faces, one by one. 'It's a right filthy easterly gale, Colpoys out of it
somewhere t' sea, nothin' ter stop 'em. Last seen, they hauls their wind fer
the north — England, lads . ..'
'They're leaving!'. The upstairs
maid's excited squeal brought an automatic reproof from Emily, but she hurried
nevertheless to the window. White sail blossomed from the largest, which was
the Glorious, she had found out. The smaller Achilles, however, showed no signs
of moving and lay quietly to her anchor. Emily frowned at this development.
With no children to occupy her days, and a husband who worked long hours, she
had thrown herself into the social round of Gibraltar. There was to be an
assembly soon, and she had had her hopes of the younger ship's officers — if
she could snare a brace, they would serve handsomely to squire the tiresome
Elliott sisters.
Then she remembered: it
was Letitia who had discovered that in Achilles was the man who had famously
rescued Lord Stanhope in a thrilling open-boat voyage after a dreadful
hurricane. She racked her brain. Yes, Captain Kydd. She would make sure somehow
that he was on the guest list.
The next forenoon the new men came
aboard, a dismal shuffle in the Mediterranean sun. They had been landed from
the stores transport from England, and their trip across wartime Biscay would
not have been pleasant. Kydd, as mate-of-the-watch, took a grubby paper from
the well-seasoned warrant officer and signed for them. He told the wide-eyed
duty midshipman to take them below on the first stage of their absorption into
the ship's company of Achilles and watched them stumble down the main-hatch.
Despite the stout clothing they had been given in the receiving ship in
England, they were a dejected and repellent-looking crew.
The warrant officer
showed no inclination to leave, and came to stand beside Kydd. 'No rowguard,
then?'
'Is this Spithead?'
Kydd retorted. Any half-awake sailor would see that it was futile to get ashore
- the only way out of Gibraltar was in a merchant ship, and they were all under
eye not two hundred yards off at the New Mole.
The warrant officer
looked at him with a cynical smile. 'How long you been outa England?'
'West Indies f'r the
last coupla years,' Kydd said guardedly.
The man's grunt was
dismissive. 'Then chalk this in yer log. Times 'r changin', cully, the navy
ain't what it was. These 'ere are the best youse are goin' to get, but not a
seaman among 'em . . .' He let the words hang: by law the press-gang could only
seize men who 'used the sea'.
He
went on: 'Ever hear o' yer Lord Mayor's men? No?' He chuckled harshly. 'By Act
o' Parlyment, every borough has to send in men, what's their quota, like, no
choice — so who they goin' to send? Good 'uns or what?' He went to the side and
spat into the harbour. 'No, o' course. They gets rid o' their low shabs,
skulkers 'n' dandy prats. Even bales out th' gaol. An' then the navy gets 'em.'
There
seemed no sense in it. The press-gang, however iniquitous, had provided good
hands in the past, even in the Caribbean. Why not now? As if in answer, the man
went on, 'Press is not bringin' 'em in any more, we got too many ships wantin'
crew.' He looked sideways at Kydd, and his face darkened. 'But this'n! You'll
find
—'
Muffled,
angry shouts came up from below. The young lieutenant-of-the-watch came
forward, frowning at the untoward commotion. 'Mr Kydd, see what the fuss is
about, if you please.'
Fisticuffs
on the gundeck. It was shortly after the noon grog issue, and it was not
unknown for men who had somehow got hold of extra drink to run riotous, but
unusually this time one of them was Boddy, an able seaman known for his steady
reliability out on a yardarm. Kydd did not recognise the other man. Surrounded
by sullen sailors, the two were locked in a vicious clinch in the low confines
below decks. This was not a simple case of tempers flaring.
'Still!' Kydd roared. The shouts and
murmuring died, but the pair continued to grapple, panting in ragged grunts.
Kydd himself could not separate them: if a wild blow landed on him, the culprit
would face a noose for striking a superior.
A quarter-gunner reached
them from aft and, without breaking stride, sliced his fist down between the
two. They fell apart, glaring and bloody. The petty officer looked enquiringly
at Kydd.
His duty was plain, the pair should be
haled to the quarterdeck for punishment, but Kydd felt that his higher duty was
to find the cause. 'Will, you old haul-bowlings,' he said loudly to Boddy, his
words carrying to the others, 'slinging y' mauley in 'tween decks, it's not
like you.'
Kydd
considered the other man. He had a disquieting habit of inclining his head one
way, but sliding his eyes in a different direction; a careful, appraising look
so different from the open honesty of a sailor.
'Caught th' prigger firkling me
ditty-bag,' Boddy said thickly. 'I'll knock his fuckin' toplights out, the
—'
'Clap a stopper on it,' Kydd snapped. It
was provocation enough: the ditty-bag was where seamen hung their ready-use
articles on the ship's side, a small bag with a hole half-way up for
convenience. There would be nothing of real value in it, so why—
'I didn't know what it was, in truth.'
The man's careful words were cool, out of place in a man-o'-war.
Boddy recoiled. 'Don't
try 'n' flam me, yer shoreside shyster,' he snarled.
It might be possible — these quota men
would know nothing of sea life from their short time in the receiving ship in
harbour and the stores transport, and be curious about their new quarters.
Either way, Kydd realised, there was going to be a hard beat to windward to
absorb the likes of these into the seamanlike ship's company that the Achilles
had become after her Atlantic passage.
'Stow it,' he growled at Boddy. 'These
grass-combin' buggers have a lot t' learn. Now, ye either lives wi' it or y'
bears up f'r the quarterdeck. Yeah?'
Boddy glared for a
moment then folded his arms. 'Yair, well, he shifts his berth fr'm this mess on
any account.'
Kydd agreed. It was a
seaman's ancient privilege to choose his messmates; he would square it later.
There was no need to invoke the formality of ship's discipline for this. He
looked meaningfully at the petty officer and returned on deck.
The warrant officer had
not left, and after Kydd had reassured the lieutenant-of-the-watch he came
across with a knowing swagger. 'Jus' makin' the acquaintance of yer Lord
Mayor's men, mate?' Kydd glanced at him coldly. 'On yer books as volunteers —
and that means each one of 'em gets seventy pound bounty, spend how they likes
. ..'
'Seventy pounds!' The
pay for a good able seaman was less than a shilling a day — this was four
years' pay for a good man. A pressed man got nothing, yet these riff-raff
...
Kydd's face tightened. 'I'll see y'
over the side,' he told the warrant officer gruffly.
At noon Kydd was relieved by
Cockburn. The bungling political solution to the manning problem was lowering
on the spirit. And Gibraltar was apparendy just a garrison town, one big
fortified rock and that was all. England was in great peril, and he was doing
little more than keeping house in an old, well-worn ship at her long-term
moorings.
Kydd didn't feel like
going ashore in this mood, but to stay on board was not an attractive
proposition, given the discontents simmering below. Perhaps he would take
another walk round town: it was an interesting enough place, all things
considered.
Satisfied with his
appearance, the blue coat of a master's mate with its big buttons, white
breeches and waistcoat with cockaded plain black hat, he joined the group at
the gangway waiting for their boat ashore. The first lieutenant came up the
main-hatch ladder, but he held his hat at his side, the sign that he was
off-duty.
'Are you passing
through the town?' he asked Kydd pleasantly.
Kydd
touched his hat politely. 'Aye, sir.'
"Then I'd be much obliged if you
could leave these two books at the garrison library,' he said, and handed over
a small parcel.
Kydd established that the library was
situated in Main Street, apparently opposite a convent. It didn't take long to
find — Main Street was the central way through the town, and the convent was
pointed out to him half-way along its length. To his surprise, it apparently
rated a full complement of sentries in ceremonials. There was a giant Union
Flag floating haughtily above the building and a sergeant glared at him from
the portico. Across the road, as directed, was the garrison library, an unpretentious
single building.
It was a quiet morning, and Emily
looked around for things to do. On her mind was her planned social event, as
always a problem with a never-changing pool of guests. Her brow furrowed at the
question of what she would wear. Despite the tropical climate of Gibraltar, she
had retained her soft, milky complexion, and at thirty-two, Emily was in the
prime of her beauty.
There was a diffident
tap on the door. She crossed to her desk to take position and signalled to the
diminutive Maltese helper.
It was a navy man; an
officer of some kind with an engagingly shy manner that in no way detracted
from his good looks. He carried a small parcel.
'Er, can ye tell me, is
this th' garrison library, miss?' She didn't recognise him: he must be from the
remaining big ship.
'It is,' she said primly. A librarian,
however amateur, had standards to uphold.
His hat was neatly
under his arm, and he proffered the parcel as though it was precious. "The
first l'tenant of Achilles asked me t' return these books,' he said, with a
curious mix of sturdy simplicity and a certain nobility of purpose.
'Thank you, it was kind in you to bring
them.' She paused, taking in the fine figure he made in his sea uniform;
probably in his mid-twenties and, from the strength in his features, she
guessed he had seen much of the world.
'Achilles — from the Caribbean? Then you
would know Mr Kydd - the famous one who rescued Lord Stanhope and sailed so far
in a tiny open boat, with his maid in with them as well.'
The young man frowned
and hesitated, but his dark eyes held a glint of humour. 'Aye, I do — but it
was never th' maid, it was Lady Stanhope's travellin' companion.' His glossy
dark hair was gathered and pulled back in a clubbed pigtail, and couldn't have
been more different from the short, powdered wigs of an army officer.
'You may think me
awfully forward, but it would greatly oblige if you could introduce me to him,'
she dared.
With a shy smile, he
said, 'Yes, miss. Then might I present m'self? Thomas Kydd, master's mate o'
the Achilles'
Chapter 2
|
It had been an agreeable day, Kydd
decided. Cockburn had joined him later and they had wandered along the busy
back-streets, sampling exotic fruit and fending off importunate gewgaw sellers.
They returned on board and Kydd opted to stay on deck, knowing that Cockburn
would want to get out his quill and paper to scratch away, his particular
solace.
The evening had turned
into night, and Kydd stood at the mizzen shrouds. Yellow lights twinkled in the
darkness, faint sounds of the land floated across the water: a donkey's bray,
an anonymous regular tap of a hammer, the ceaseless susurration of activity.
Possibly their
indefinite stay in Gibraltar would not be wholly unpleasant, he reflected. Then
he recalled the dire news of the invasion fleet and that Renzi, in Glorious was
on his way to join in a titanic battle for the very life of England, while his
own ship was left here as a poor token of English power.