“La Fouine? I’m not sure I follow you, sir. I was simply referring to your remarkable sagacity in devising a stratagem to preserve a convoy off Sicily from depredation. Our agent in Malta speaks highly of you, Mr Kydd.”
Kydd looked down modestly. Was he right to hope . . . ?
“And now, sir, of what service may we be to you?” Russell said mildly, taking off his spectacles to polish them.
“Mr Russell, as ye will be aware, with th’ late peace, the King’s service is less a place f’r an enterprising officer. As a mariner of ambition I see that th’ merchant service may provide me more of a future, an’ I ask if ye will consider me as suitable f’r your ocean-going trade—” he took a deep breath “—as a master.”
The polishing stopped. At first Kydd thought that Russell had not heard, but then he answered, with no change in his expression: “You’ll be sound in your nauticals, I will believe,” he said, “Pray tell me, sir, your notion of the monetary risks the master of a merchant vessel incurs on behalf of the owner under a charter party voyage.”
Kydd shifted uncomfortably.
“Or the rule for calculating per diem demurrage should a particular freight require re-stowage by cause of the consignee? The bottomry premium if calculated on . . .”
At Kydd’s embarrassed silence he stopped, then resumed gently, “You will see, Commander, our ways are different, we have other concerns. You will understand if I say that I do wish you well for your future, but at the moment there does not appear to be a marine post now open with us that would be suitable for a gentleman of your undoubted quality.”
“I do understand,” said Kydd, meekly, “an’ I thank ye for your time, sir.”
He had come full circle: now there was nothing more. With a polite bow he turned and left, joining the streaming bustle of the street. He felt light-headed and detached; in a way he was relieved that it was all over, no more pretence, no more futile hoping.
Stepping round a pair of drunken, brawling sailors he made for the river but became aware of someone distant calling his name. He looked back and saw the old clerk hurrying after him. “Sir, Cap’n, Mr Russell begs you will grant him a further minute of your time, should you be at liberty to do so.”
Russell sat Kydd down and did not waste time. “Mr Kydd, my junior partner has just informed me that, indeed, we may well have a position vacant such as you describe. Due to an illness, one of our senior masters is unable to take post and we stand embarrassed in the matter of our obligations. Is it at all possible that you may consider taking the situation, bearing in mind that this will be an ocean voyage of some months and at short notice to sail?”
Kydd fought to appear calm. “Er, could ye tell me more of th’ ship, Mr Russell?”
“The Totnes Castle. A fine barque of four hundred and twenty tons, fully rigged and lying now at Deptford. I should think you will find yourself well satisfied with her.”
Trying to hide his soaring hopes, Kydd asked, “Th’ cargo? As y’ know, I have no experience in cargo handling.” He was dimly aware that cargoes such as textiles and rice were stowed differently from exotics like joggaree and Prussian blue.
Russell leaned back expansively. “She’s under government contract for the far colonies, so you will have nothing to worry about there—in any case you will have the first mate, Cuzens, to assist you,” he added smoothly.
On a long voyage Kydd knew he would have plenty of time to learn the ropes before they made port to discharge. And, glory be, he would be back at sea—as the captain of a ship once again. Elation flooded him. “I’ll take her!” he blurted.
“Splendid!” Russell purred. “Then there’s just the matter of the formalities, Captain. We are a business, you know.”
Papers were sorted, presented and signed. Kydd sighed deeply. He was now master of a ship in the employ of Burns, Throsby and Russell, expected to step aboard and take command directly.
“Er, what will be m’ first voyage?” he asked tentatively.
“The Totnes Castle will probably call at Tenerife before sailing south. You’re familiar with the Atlantic? Then it would be usual to touch at the Cape before dropping to forty south until you feel able to bear up for New South Wales.”
“New Holland!” The other side of the earth—four, five months at sea. And then, at the end of it, what in heaven’s name could be there to justify a trading voyage? Sudden suspicion dawned.
“My cargo—”
“Will be stores, grain, tools and so on, the usual supplies for our colonies in Port Jackson.”
“And . . . ?”
“A small number of convicted felons, of course, but naturally you will have guards.”
A convict ship. His mind froze in horror. He was to command one of those hell-ships that transported unfortunates beyond the seas to Botany Bay? It was . . .
“Mr Kydd,” Russell continued earnestly, “we have the utmost faith in your abilities at this very short notice and recognise that the post may not meet with your entire satisfaction. Therefore, subject to a successful conclusion to this voyage, we shall look to offering you a more permanent berth on your return.
“Now, sir, shall we look more closely at the details?”
CHAPTER 11
KYDD GRIPPED THE PAPER FIERCELY. “This Charter Party of Affreightment made and Concluded upon . . . to Port Jackson in New South Wales, on the Terms and Conditions following, Viz . . . and shall be fitted and furnished with Masts, Sails, Yards, Anchors, Cables, Ropes, Cords, Apparel and other . . . the said Burns, Throsby … Russell, do Covenant that . . . the said Convicts, their Births, Sickness, Behaviour, or Deaths . . . at the rate of Seventeen Pounds Seven Shillings and Sixpence per head for each Convict . . .”
It was a bewildering and disturbing sea world he was entering. The familiar sturdy dimensions of conduct of the Navy were replaced by a different imperative: success in his profession was now to be measured in cost and profit, his acumen in dealing with traders and authorities to the best advantage of the owners, and the securing of an uneventful and minimally expensed voyage. However, it was the life he had chosen: if he was to move up to a better class of vessel on his return then he had to make a good fist of this, whatever it took—and so little time to learn!
The master’s cabin of Totnes Castle was small and utilitarian, gloomy with dark, oiled wood and a smell of close living. The ship herself was of a size, nearly double that of the lovely Teazer, but her interior was undoubtedly for one overriding purpose: the carrying of cargo.
As ship’s master he had a dual role, as captain, and as representative to the world of the merchant company Burns, Throsby and Russell. In token of this, his signature was sufficient in itself to incur debt and expenditure without apparent limit in the company’s name. To Kydd’s disquiet, he had discovered that Totnes Castle did not rate a purser and he was expected to function as one, with the assistance of the steward, whose other duties were to wait at table.
Then there were the officers. The mate Cuzens, a fat, blustering man, did not inspire Kydd; neither did the second mate, a sharp-featured Dane. The third was not yet appointed. In deep-sea three watches, if he sailed without one he would end up himself taking the deck. And the others: a sly boatswain, elderly carpenter and witless sailmaker, whose senseless muttering as he worked had got on Kydd’s nerves when he had first come aboard. That left only the eighteen seamen and four boys—apprentices they were termed but they had the knowing look of the London dockside.
Kydd had so little time left. He had worked into the night, trying to get on top of the terrifyingly large number of matters needing his attention. Even the most familiar were subtly different; he was beginning to feel punch-drunk at the onslaught.
With a casual knock at his door Cuzens entered before Kydd could reply. “Y’ papers, Mr Kydd,” he said, slapping down a thick envelope on his table. He had the odd habit of seldom looking directly at people—his eyes roved about restlessly. “Hear tell they’re comin’ aboard when y’ tips
the wink,” he grunted.
Totnes Castle was moored out in Galleon’s Reach, within sight of both the Woolwich Royal Dockyard and Deptford, making ready to take aboard her cargo of criminals. The banging and screeching Kydd could hear was the carpenter and his crew preparing the ’tween decks for use as a prison.
“Thank ye, Mr Cuzens,” Kydd said heavily. “That’ll be all.” With ill-natured muttering, the man left and Kydd spread out the contents.
One document of thicker quality than the others caught his eye: “The Transportation Register.” He smoothed it open: columns of neatly inscribed names—and sentences. This was the reality of what was about to happen: the meaningless names were under sentence of law to be Transported to Parts Beyond the Seas for terms ranging from seven years to the heart-catching “term of his natural life”—and Kydd was under the duty of ensuring that this took place.
He pushed the papers away in a fit of misery. That he had been brought so low! To be master of a prison-ship and personal gaoler to these wretches. Their crimes were dispassionately listed: the theft of lodging-house furniture, probably sold for drink; a soft-witted footman pawning a master’s plate that no doubt bore an incriminating crest; a cow-keeper thinking to add to his income by taking game in the woods at night. A pickpocket, a failed arsonist. It went on and on in a monotonous round of idiocy and venality. These, of course, were the lucky ones: there were others at this very moment in Newgate prison whose next dawn would be their last.
At another knock on the door, Kydd called wearily, “Come!”
He looked up dully as a stranger entered. “Mowlett,” the man said quietly, and helped himself to Kydd’s only armchair.
“Oh?” said Kydd, noting the deeply lined yet sensitive face.
“Dr Mowlett—your surgeon,” he said, in a tone that was half casual, half defiant.
“Ah. I was told—”
“I would think it imprudent to be too credulous about what one is told in this business, Mr, er, Kydd,” Mowlett said. “Do you object?” he added, taking out a slim case and selecting a cheroot.
“If ye must, sir,” he said.
Mowlett considered for a space, then replaced the small cigar. “Are you in any wise ready to show me your preparations, sir?”
“My preparations?”
“Of course.” Mowlett smiled. “In that as surgeon I am also, as of this voyage, your government superintendent. You are responsible for landing the prisoners in a good state of health—in accordance with your government contract, I hasten to add. Shall we inspect their quarters?”
Kydd had quickly made his acquaintance with Totnes Castle before. Her capacious hold was still being readied; the carpenter had done the job before and seemed to know what was needed. Kydd had simply let him get on with it.
He and Mowlett stepped gingerly through the half-constructed bulkhead, studded with heavy nails and with loopholes. Their entry was a small door, but it was more like a slit, requiring them to squeeze through sideways. At sea if the ship was holed this would be a hopeless death-trap.
With hatches off, the entire drab length of the space was illuminated pitilessly, a reeking grey-timbered cavity with iron bars fitted as a barrier at midships, another further forward. As soon as the convicts were aboard, the hatches would be battened down securely with gratings and this would change to a dank hole. The carpenter straightened and offered, “Men ’ere, females the next, an’ the nippers right forrard.”
Kydd had forgotten that he was to carry women and children as well; with a lurch of unreality he realised that nothing in his previous sea experience had prepared him for it. Mowlett moved over to the side of the ship where most of the work was going on. Two levels of berths were being fitted along the sides with a narrow central walkway. They were like shelves: four or more would be expected to sleep together. It was all a hideous travesty of sea-going and Kydd’s gorge rose.
He glanced at Mowlett and saw his lips moving as he counted. The surgeon swivelled round to count on the other side, then turned to Kydd and drawled, “Upwards of two hundred human beings confined in here, for four, five months. All weathers, half the world over and in chains.”
What was he expected to do? Kydd wanted to retort. The contract was for 214 convicts and the ship was being stored and victualled accordingly. Kydd stepped forward doggedly and checked the fore hatchway; the compartment led up the ladder to the foredeck, where pens for cattle and poultry were ready. Barricades had been erected at each end of the open deck with firing slits facing inwards, and everywhere bore evidence of the real purpose of the ship.
Four or five months at sea in this! It was inconceivable, and with not a soul aboard who could in any sense be called a friend to share with him the grievous assaults on his soul. He turned and tramped back to his cabin.
Glowering out through the salt-misted stern windows at the busy Thames, Kydd was startled by a light laugh behind him. It was Mowlett, who must have followed him in, now sitting at his ease in the armchair. “So you’re Kydd, a victor of the Nile and now prison-ship master! What possessed you to take the post I can’t possibly conceive.”
Something in Kydd’s look made him add, “Easy enough. An unusual name and I do read the Gazette sometimes.” He went on offhandedly, “So we can take it that it’s in your interest to land the convicts in Port Jackson fit and healthy at more than seventeen pounds a head, then.”
“Aye,” said Kydd, cautiously.
“No, it’s not,” retorted Mowlett, half smiling, “It’s much more in your interest to have a sickly voyage with half the convicts shaking hands with Davy Jones. Claim their rations and sell it on in New South Wales—on that alone you’ll make twice your figure for landing ’em healthy.”
Kydd was speechless.
“But, then, of course you’ll be venturing privately? A decent freight of baubles and trinkets will have all Sydney a-twittering. It’s expected, you know, and if you come all that way without you have something, well, consider the disappointment.” As captain, Kydd was free to arrange cargo stowage for any such speculation and it did not take much imagination to conjure the effect in the desperately isolated colony of the arrival of the latest London items of fashion. It would be a captive market.
“You are a man of the world, Mr Kydd, and you will know that this is not where the greatest profit lies—oh, no . . .”
“So then, what is—”
“Why, I’m astonished you confess ignorance! All the world knows the one cargo perfectly sure of a welcome, that will be snatched from your hands by free and bound alike, and that is— rum! Rivers of the stuff are thrown down throats daily to dull the pains of exile, to make brave the weak, to blind the eyes to squalor. I should think the whole colony will be safely comatose in a sodden, drunken stupor for at least three weeks after our arrival . . .”
The bitterness he could detect under the banter eased Kydd’s misgivings and he replied gravely, “Then they’ll be disappointed, Mr Mowlett, for there’ll be no rum cargo f’r Totnes Castle.”
Mowlett seemed taken aback, then added, in a milder tone, “We shall hope that our squalid cargo of humanity does not bring the usual gaol-fever or worse—you have the easier task. I ask you to conceive of my dilemma in the selecting of physic to meet all and any scourges of the flesh brought aboard by the poor wretches and which invariably will become apparent only in the midst of the ocean.”
He got to his feet. “Good luck, Doctor,” Kydd said quietly.
“It’s you who will need the luck, Captain.”
Kydd watched the lighters approach with bleak resignation. The vessel was as prepared for the convicts as it was ever likely to be: the ’tween decks were now one long prison-cell. He and the officers would inhabit the raised after cabins, what the Navy would call a poop, while the seamen had a corresponding raised fo’c’sle forward. Apart from store-rooms and hideaways for the boatswain and carpenter, the rest was so much prison lumber. There was, however, a state-room on either forward wing of the offi
cers’ cabins. These were prepared for two free settler families apparently booked for the passage; they would board at the last possible moment before they sailed to minimise any distasteful exposure to the prisoners.
The lighters had put off from the dark hulks moored further along; foetid, rotten and stinking, they were worse even than the disease-ridden bridewells ashore. Later there would be carts with unfortunates from Newgate and other London gaols to crowd aboard.
In his pocket was a letter just received from Cecilia. She had understood Kydd’s need to be away to sea again and had avoided reference to his ship, only stating a forlorn request for a souvenir of the far land they would reach after so much voyaging. Renzi was still missing but Cecilia stoutly believed they would find him soon. Kydd felt there was little hope if he had not been found by now, and he could not shake off an image of his friend lying dead in a ditch somewhere like any common pauper.
Totnes Castle had been warped alongside the wharf. A scruffy troop of redcoats arrived, took station at either extreme and, with musket and bayonet, stood easy, taking no notice of the fast-growing numbers of spectators. Kydd was determined to get away on the afternoon tide; once the hundreds had come aboard they would be consuming ship’s stores and precious water.
More worries nagged at him: he had sent for the usual charts from Falconer’s in the Strand but all they had of New Holland were the meticulous but single-track charts of Cook and hopeful productions from the small number of those who had passed that way in the score and a half years since, and whose accuracy could not be guaranteed. For his own cabin stores he had relied heavily on the placid steward, Cahn, who had made a previous voyage. Was he trustworthy? Should he have taken on a speculative freight? It had been tempting but he had no idea of how to go about it and, in any case, he had neither the time nor the capital.
The lighters neared. Kydd’s gaze strayed to the plain, blocky deck-line of his ship. Within the compass of its small length more than two hundred souls would spend the next four or five months under his care and command. Had he taken enough aboard to see them safely through the months ahead?
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