Kydd

by Julian Stockwin

  “Stand clear — what happened?” the surgeon asked breathlessly.

  “Fall from the yard,” said an officer, arriving from the quarterdeck.

  The surgeon dropped to his knees and felt for a pulse, his eyes passing briefly over the inert body. He rolled back an eyelid. Holding a small silver mirror to Bowyer’s lips, he inspected the result. “He lives yet, but I’ll not be sanguine about the outcome.” He straightened and looked around.

  In the shocked silence nobody moved.

  “Broken bones bear on his brain — it must be relieved. Tie him to a grating and take him below to the cockpit.”

  The main hatch grating, which had so often seen the blood of floggings, was now smeared with the bright red of Bowyer’s lifeblood. There was no lack of men to help Kydd carry it below.

  In the center of the noisome gloom of the cockpit Bowyer was placed on a table. Lanthorns could only provide their usual dim light, leaving much of the scene in shadow. The loblolly boys, broken-down men who were fit for no other work, stretched out Bowyer’s limbs, tying them to stanchions. Then they stood back and waited for the surgeon to return with his chest.

  Suddenly Bowyer’s back arched and with a loud, tearing groan his body strained in a terrible convulsion. Kydd threw himself at his friend and tried to force him down. “F’r God’s sake, help me!” he screamed at the loblollies, who were standing well back in the shadows.

  They remained still, one rhythmically chewing tobacco.

  “Help, for Chrissake!” Kydd sobbed. The body was rigid and contorted in a grotesque upward spasm. His efforts to press the spine down were hopelessly ineffective.

  There was a movement in the lanthorn glow and the surgeon was at his side.

  Kydd gasped with relief. “He — he’s —” he tried to say.

  “Opisthotonos,” the man muttered.

  Kydd stared at him.

  “Not unusual in these cases — leave him, it’ll pass.” He casually upended a green bottle, wiped his mouth and replaced the bottle in the capacious side pocket of his black coat.

  Kydd reluctantly let go of his friend and hovered next to the convulsed body, unsure and cold with horror.

  The surgeon pulled at Kydd’s jacket and said testily, “Be so good as to let me get on with it, will you?”

  Kydd stepped back and watched as the surgeon rummaged in his chest, bringing out some steel instruments, which he laid on a small collapsible table next to Bowyer’s head. The convulsion passed and Bowyer sank down.

  The surgeon went to Bowyer’s head and addressed himself to the task. A razor was flourished, and Bowyer’s head was shaved around the seeping blood, leaving a monk-like tonsure.

  “More light, you oaf!” he growled at the taller loblolly, who obediently held two lanthorns each side of Bowyer’s head.

  The surgeon felt the skull all over, then picked up a scalpel and, stretching the scalp with one hand, drew the blade smartly across in a three-inch incision. He made a similar cut at right angles at one end of the first incision, then peeled the scalp away in a triangle.

  The sickly white of living, gleaming bone was clear in the close lanthorn light. The surgeon bent nearer and traced the long depressed fracture to where it continued under the scalp. Another incision and the whole was exposed. “Mmm, we have a chance, possibly,” he muttered. He lifted a complex instrument. “Basson’s patent trephine,” he said, with pride. Carefully he felt around the floating skull plates until he found a sound area, then applied the instrument and set to work.

  In the breathless silence the tiny bone-cutting sounds grated unbearably. Kydd looked away at the loblolly boys, who watched the operation stolidly. The men who had helped him carry Bowyer down retreated farther and Kydd caught the gleam of a tilted bottle. The lanthorns gave off a hot oily smell.

  A young midshipman from their nearby berth lingered, fascinated, and glanced up at Kydd with a twisted grin.

  The surgeon exchanged his trephine for another instrument and inserted it in the skull cavity. Kydd let his gaze drop to the wound and saw Bowyer’s brain tissue, blood dripping slowly in small threads down the side of his face and to the deck. He could not control the sudden heaves — he staggered and held desperately to a deck stanchion. The surgeon straightened and glared at Kydd. “If ye’re going to cast your accounts now, kindly do it somewhere else.”

  Kydd stumbled blindly toward the other men.

  “Well, I hold myself in some amazement; he still breathes,” the surgeon said later, waving away the lanthorns and stretching. He wiped his hands on his bloody apron, which he tossed to the loblolly boy, and took a long pull at his bottle. “You may have him,” he said shortly. “The loblollies will attend in course.” He disappeared into his cabin.

  Kydd let out his breath. It was a waking nightmare, the blood-bespattered head all bandaged, the eyes receding into dark sockets.

  They took Bowyer to the bay, the extreme fore part of the middle gundeck where the bows came to a point, and laid him down in a swinging cot, next to where the root of the mighty bowsprit reared outward.

  One of the loblollies stayed, his tobacco chewing never ceasing.

  His eyes dull with grief, Kydd sat with his friend. The hours passed; he willed with all his heart for some indication that the world had been set to rights again — for the eyes to flicker open, that slow smile — but there was only stillness and the hypnotic cycle of the rise and fall of the chest, a long moment of waiting, then another.

  Kydd got up and stretched. There was no change; he would take a short break.

  He returned to see the loblolly boy bent over Bowyer, working feverishly at the body. Kydd ran forward, guilt-ridden at having been absent. He realized that the loblolly boy had been at work on Bowyer’s finger, trying to pull off the worn ring. Kydd wrenched him around and pinioned him against the fore bulkhead.

  A crowd quickly gathered at the commotion.

  The loblolly’s eyes shifted. “But ’e’ll not need that where ’e’s goin’!” he whined.

  Kydd smashed his fist into the man’s face and drew back his arm for another blow, but felt his arms seized from behind. “Don’t do ’im, mate — ’e’s not worth a floggin’!” someone cried.

  Kydd fell back and the loblolly fled.

  At three bells Bowyer gave a muffled groan and writhed in a weak spasm. Kydd lurched to his feet and held him down until it passed.

  The vigil continued and Kydd’s hold on reality drifted. Shadows appeared, offering him grog, food. His messmates came in ones and twos; an awkward word, a hand clapped on the shoulder, understanding. Bowyer’s breathing was now almost imperceptible.

  Exhaustion made Kydd’s eyes heavy and his head jerked as he fought to keep awake. In this half-world of existence there was a merciful sense of detachment, a disconnection from events. Toward the end of the last dog-watch his mind registered a change . . . that there was now no movement at all. Bowyer’s appearance was quite unaltered, except that he no longer breathed.

  His best friend was dead.

  “Rum do, Joe gettin’ ’is like that,” said Doud.

  “Not ’s if he were a raw hand — never seen such a right old shellback as ’e,” Whaley mused.

  Pinto leaned across the table, his liquid brown eyes serious. “You joke — but we say, when the Holy Mother want someone, she call, you come.”

  From the end of the table Claggett coughed in a noncommittal way and called them to attention. “Joe had no folks.” The statement was bald, but downcast looks showed that the implications were clear. “He was one o’ the Hanway boys, he were never one fer the ’longshore life.” He glanced around. The shoddy purser’s glim guttered. This time there were no sardonic words about the smell. “I’d say that Tom Kydd is as close as any to Joe,” Claggett said.

  “Where’s he now, poor mucker?” someone asked.

  “Saw him a whiles ago up forrard on the fo’c’sle,” said Howell. “At the weather cathead,” he added significantly.

&nbs
p; “Doesn’t someone go ’n’ see if we can help?” said Doud.

  Whaley hesitated. “Did go meself, Ned, but he wants to be on his own.”

  “Best to leave him so, I guess,” said Claggett. “He’ll get over it betimes.”

  Kydd was not alone, there on the fo’c’sle in the wind and thin rain. In his befuddled brain he felt a fierce and uncaring joy in the hard bulk of the bottle that lay hidden, nestling next to his heart. Phelps could always be relied on where rum was concerned.

  In the gloom of the night the fore lookouts kept out of the way and no one else was foolish enough to wallow in the chill misery of wind and rain. Kydd took another drink from his secret store. It helped, but only if he didn’t think. The trouble was there was no answer. Only blind fate. He took another swig. It burned as it spread into his vitals.

  For some reason he found himself sitting on deck with his back to the carronade, looking up with owlish eyes at the huge pale span of the foresail. Strange that. There should only be one foreyard; another seemed to be floating nearby. He leaned back to get a better view and toppled over. He struggled to sit upright again and fixed his eyes on the rain-black bitts to steady himself.

  “Poor sod!” the larboard fo’c’sle lookout muttered to the other, jerking his head at the sodden, lonely figure. Neither could desert their posts — and that meant the result was inevitable. In a short while the Master-at-Arms with his corporals would be doing his rounds and would discover the poor wight. Then it would be irons overnight and the cat in the morning — at sea they were merciless when it came to a member of the fighting crew becoming useless from drink when at any time the enemy could loom up out of the night with all guns blazing. He’d be lucky to get away with just a dozen.

  The lookout turned back to resume his stare out into the night.

  The bottle tilted again. Bowyer had no right to leave him like this — he’d taken his advice and was well on the way to becoming a sailor. And now he had to sort it out for himself. It wasn’t fair. Unlike many of the pressed men, Kydd had found a friend. In Bowyer, he’d had someone who could take this hellish world and make sense of it, put it in perspective for him. Give him purpose, a future, and be there when needed. Kydd’s face contorted.

  A figure emerged from the fore hatch, indistinct in the gloom. It hesitated, then came across and stood over him. Renzi looked down, with pity and revulsion in his expression. Blind sentiment played no part in Renzi’s character — Kydd must take his chances along the road he himself had chosen. In his own past he had seen too many like him, worse in fact, for those with the wealth to do it could go to hell in their own way. Renzi moved away — but something made him return. He looked down again. Kydd returned the look with drunken resentment and Renzi swore harshly, for he knew he could not abandon him. Not when the man bore the uncanny resemblance that had haunted Renzi since Kydd first came aboard. He jerked Kydd to his feet, tore the bottle from his grasp and hurled it into the night.

  “Wha — how dar’ you, s-sir!” Kydd spluttered, trying to dislodge the grip clamped on his collar. Somehow his feet found the deck and he wriggled free.

  Renzi regarded him grimly.

  Kydd bristled. “You never l-liked Joe,” he said. “You don’ like anybody, you slivey bast’d!”

  Renzi had deep reasons for his detached position. But something had to be done: if he did nothing, disengaged himself — the result would be inevitable. A pang of memory stabbed at him.

  “Wha’s matter? Can’t speak? Don’t wanna speak wi’ a common jack — you too high ’n’ mighty, then?”

  Kydd had changed, Renzi acknowledged to himself. Far from being a naïve young man from a country town pressed into an uncaring, alien environment, he was gaining confidence in his considerable natural abilities and had a very real prospect of being a fine seaman — if he survived.

  “Ah, yes!” He looked at Renzi sideways with a leer. “I know — I know why you’re at sea wi’ the rest of us!”

  He made exaggerated glances around to check for listeners. “You’ve done something, haven’t you? Somethin’ bad, I’ll wager, ’n’ they’re after you. You go ashore, they’re gonna nobble you. You’re runnin’, Renzi, running from somethin’.”

  Renzi drew a sharp breath. “You ignorant jackass. You don’t know what you’re talking about. Put a rein on your tongue before you say anything you might regret.”

  “It speaks! The gran’ prince deigns to address th’ mobility.” Kydd made a bow, but staggered forward, colliding with Renzi. “Ge’ your hands off me, sir!” Kydd said, wrenching himself free. He took a swing at Renzi, clumsy and wild. Renzi easily ducked under it, but knew that if he left now all would be over for Kydd. Tempted, he drew back — but Kydd’s guileless face and dark features pricked him mercilessly. Stepping around him, Renzi seized his arms in a lock and frog-marched him toward the hatch.

  “Ger’ away — wha’ you doing? Le’ me go, you —”

  He threw Kydd down the ladder and resumed his hold when Kydd picked himself up at the bottom. It continued until they were in the orlop. Renzi dragged Kydd over to the gratings between the pump room and sail stowage, and flung him down. “There, you fool! You want to give your life to the bottle, do it in company.” He jerked up the grating to reveal, in the stinking blackness below, a huddled figure clutching a bot tle. The face looked up anxiously, rheumy eyes and trembling grasp pitiful in its degradation. Renzi spoke scornfully. “Eakin, cooper’s mate. Why don’t you introduce yourself, Mr. Kydd? I’m sure you’ll find you have much in common!” He let Kydd drop to the deck and left.

  “Don’t worry, mate, we squared it with Jack Weatherface. Good hand, is Tewsley.” Doud spoke softly, as to a child.

  Kydd said nothing, holding his head and staring at his breakfast.

  “Yeah — look, we understand, cuffin. He was our shipmate too.” Whaley reached over and squeezed his arm.

  Kydd looked up wordlessly. His vague memories of the previous night were shot through with horror — waking from a drunken sleep to find the sickening Eakin pulling him down into the hold to evade the Master-at-Arms before clumsily going through his clothes for drink or valuables. He remembered also Renzi’s pitiless grip and implacable face, and the cold ferocity of his movements. Kydd shot a glance over at Renzi in his usual place opposite Claggett. Silent and guarded as ever, he gave no sign of recognition.

  Why had he done it? What had made Renzi break with character so much as to involve himself in a shipmate’s fate?

  Kydd needed answers — but not here.

  At dinner, he watched Renzi quietly. No one knew, or particularly cared, where Renzi spent his time and, true to form, he slipped away afterward.

  Kydd rose and followed. Renzi emerged onto the upper deck, then swung out to the fore shrouds and up to the foretop, where he disappeared from view.

  He did not return. Kydd made his way up the ratlines to the foretop.

  Renzi sat with his back to the after rail, a book balanced on his knee. Looking up as Kydd climbed into the top, he assumed an expression of cold distaste, but said nothing.

  “I’m to thank you for y’r concern, sir,” Kydd began.

  Still no words, just the repelling look.

  “I was much affected. My friend . . .” Kydd tailed off.

  It was hard. Renzi felt himself weakening.

  “Why did you interfere?” said Kydd abruptly.

  Renzi put down the book and sighed. It was no good, he just could not bring himself to repel Kydd with his usual malignity. “Do I have to be in possession of a reason?” he asked.

  “Your pardon, but you’ve never shown an interest in others before.”

  “Perhaps I choose to in your case.”

  “Why?”

  Renzi looked out over the moving gray seas under the wan sunlight. How could he speak of the depth of feeling, the cold remorseless logic that had driven him to self-sentence himself — that same discipline of rationality that had kept him from following the others to
self-destruction. It had its own imperatives. “Because you remind me of one who — I once met,” he said finally.

  Kydd looked at him, unsure of how to respond.

  “And because I have seen others go to hell the same way.”

  “Then please don’t concern yourself. I don’t make a practice of it.”

  “I’m gratified to hear it.” Renzi’s educated voice seemed out of keeping.

  “Who are you?” Kydd asked boldly. “I mean, what are y’ doin’ on a man-o’-war?”

  “That can be of no possible concern to you.”

  “I see you do not care f’r conversation, sir. I will take my leave,” said Kydd, aware that, despite himself, when speaking to Renzi he was aping his manners.

  “No — wait!” Renzi closed his book. “I spoke hastily perhaps. Please sit down.” It was rash, perhaps, but right now he felt a surging need for human interaction.

  “Have you — are they after you?” Kydd said, looking at him directly.

  Renzi toyed with the nice philosophical distinction between legal criminality and moral, but decided to answer in the negative.

  “Then . . .”

  “I was not pressed, if that is your impression.”

  Kydd eased his position. “So I must find that you are runnin’ — hidin’ — and from what, I do not know. Am I right?”

  Renzi could not avoid Kydd’s forthright gaze. “Yes, you are right,” he admitted. How much could he speak of his situation and hope to be understood? Kydd was strong-minded — he had to be to endure — but he had no acquaintance with Descartes or Leibniz and their cold logic, no appre ciation of the higher moral forces that might motivate a man of the Enlightenment.

  Kydd smiled thinly. “You do not look a one who’d be craven.”

  Renzi half smiled and looked away. The months of self-imposed isolation, the deliberate lack of human contact, had been hard, but he had borne this as part of the punishment. But what if this could rightly be construed as ultra poenas dare — beyond the penalty given? The condition of exile might be sustained, yet he would have the precious mercy of human company.

  He looked directly at Kydd, considering, and found himself deciding: if he was going to confide in anyone it would be Kydd. “You wish an explanation.”