Kydd

by Julian Stockwin

  Through the gunport the enemy ship was clearly visible across the narrowing gap of water, and for a split second Kydd took in the black and yellow hull darkening the frame of the port. There was debris falling in the water alongside it from their own cannon strike and he was aware of countless gun muzzles staring at him.

  Velasquez’s ramrod cut across his gaze as he plied it, his movements skilled and rapid, savage joy in his face.

  Kydd went to the shot garland around the main hatch and rolled a ball on to the cradle. Standing on the grating was a ship’s boy, his ears bound and his eyes enormously big and bright. He clutched his cartridge box to him like a teddy bear, his strong little legs bare to the toes. Kydd smiled encouragingly at him, but there was no response in the solemn, wide-eyed face.

  They faced about just as the enemy replied. The noise was fantastic, for their own guns spoke at the same time, the crashing thunder seeming to go on forever as the guns played up and down the sides of the two great vessels. No more than a hundred yards away now, they couldn’t miss, and Kydd knew that through the choking smoke their own ship-smashers would be doing deadly work.

  Splintering crashes and screams somewhere in the gloom told of where the enemy shot had found its mark. As the smoke cleared he noticed a strange pattern of daylight two guns down, then saw that the ship’s side between the gunports was missing.

  Behind it a seaman sat on the deck, staring at his right arm, which was now no more than a stick, the blood coursing steadily down from it. He watched it with a puzzled frown, then slowly pitched forward.

  A rhythmic tearing gasp nearby made Kydd wheel round. A man was lying on his side, hands clutching a long jagged wound in his inner thigh, trying painfully to drag himself toward the hatchway. He left a bloody trail.

  Cantlow appeared from aft. His white face stared sightlessly. Pushing past Kydd, he made his way forward aimlessly.

  Shouts and cheers penetrated the general noise, clear through the sharp ringing in Kydd’s ears. Wildly thirsty, parched by the metallic-tasting powder smoke, he went to the scuttled butt of water amidships and ladled out a dipper of cool sweet nectar.

  Again the gun crew rolled a shot into the muzzle and stepped back quickly. The French were now no more than a few dozen yards away, their harsh yells alien to the ear. They were answered with equal venom by the British seamen.

  Velasquez spun like a dancer and sent the ramrod spinning in. But then he pirouetted and fell, the ugly tear of a musketball wound in his back.

  Stirk bawled obscenely as he leaped forward and carried the writhing man tenderly to the rear.

  “Double shotting!” Stirk roared. There would be two balls to one shot, the effect on accuracy greatly outweighed by the doubling of killing power. Their next ball was already on the cradle and they rushed it forward.

  Stirk didn’t wait for firing orders — this was a smashing match and only the faster crews would win. There was no need to sight. He jerked on the gunlock lanyard. The gun bellowed and slammed to the rear with increased recoil, the breeching rope twanging dangerously.

  Through a freak break in the smoke Kydd could see the enemy side. It shuddered visibly under the impact of their double shot and a massive hole appeared magically in the center of his vision. Before the smoke closed in he saw that the enemy guns were still not run out and there seemed to be some sort of jerky activity behind the ports.

  The other ship was less than fifteen feet away and when they came together the massive grinding impact sent Kydd staggering. The smoke drifted away and there was the enemy side within touching distance — pockmarked, splintered and with blood running down the side in thin streams from a rent in her sides.

  Raging shouts burst out. The enemy seamen were feet away only and with bull roars the British seamen attacked them even through the ports, with ramrods and anything that came to hand: battering, smashing, killing. Cooler hands raced to the arms chest and the flash and bang of pistols stabbed the smoky gloom.

  “Awaaay, boarders!” Lockwood’s voice was hoarse. He stood with his sword out, his uniform grimed with powder smoke, eyes reddened.

  Seamen nominated for the task ran for the hatchway, snatching pistols and cutlasses as they left.

  Kydd turned back to the mêlée. Opposite, the enemy gunport framed a stout man with a mustache, who gestured violently with his ramrod.

  Kydd remembered the cruelty of the French cavalry. Dropping the shot cradle, he ran over to the pistol chest and grabbed a weapon. It felt heavy and cold. Cocking it haphazardly, he aimed past the heads of the working gun crew at the man and banged off the pistol. It bucked viciously in his hand. Stirk and his men turned in surprise but, to his intense satisfaction, Kydd saw the man clutch at his face and drop out of sight.

  Duke William had not quite come to a standstill, the enemy’s side slipping past at a walking pace. Stirk’s gun crashed out again, the crew working like madmen on the reload. Kydd’s back and arms felt a burning ache, his efforts at the oars still taking their toll.

  Another crunching impact brought long sounds of splintering. The enemy guns began firing again — but they were many fewer.

  Kydd felt a peculiar exultation, a rising of blood lust, a call from his Briton forebears. He shrieked defiance as he worked.

  A man staggered in a circle, a jagged spear protruding from the side of his chest. He turned and fell and Kydd saw that it was an oaken splinter torn from the deck and driven into him. The man writhed and flopped, and almost in a trance Kydd turned back to the job in hand.

  The Royal Billys ran out the gun but suddenly the enemy beakhead was passing from view, a figurehead of a virago with a conical hat and clasping a spear, then empty sea. They had gone past their opponent without coming to a stop.

  “Stupid crazy bastard — the fucking lamebrain!” Stirk raved, spittle on his lips underlining his fury. “ ’E ’asn’t fuckin’ backed tops’ls!”

  It was elementary: to keep the ship in position while the guns made their play, it was necessary to heave to by putting the topsails aback. Kydd wondered at the scene on deck. It could be that the Captain had fallen and could not give the order.

  The firing died away. “Clear away this shit,” Stirk said dully.

  Splinters and debris went out the port, the last wounded were taken below. Blood splashes were left-there were more important tasks at hand to ready the guns for the next bout.

  Cautiously Jewkes leaned out of the gunport. “Wha — they’re running, the shy bastards!”

  Kydd and others joined him at the port and eagerly took in the scene.

  The enemy ships had hauled their wind and now shaped course for Brest, their high stern galleries prominent as they sailed away. The battered rigging of the British ships resulted in their falling farther behind, the changed angle again making their guns impotent.

  Maddened shouts and cheering stormed from Duke William’s gunports until the chase brought them into range of the batteries ashore. Wearing around, the squadron made a dignified retreat, deeply satisfied that the battlefield was now theirs.

  CHAPTER 11

  * * *

  Really, old fellow, I was too busy to worry,” Renzi said. They were sitting astride the cro’jack yard, busy splicing.

  “And I,” Kydd agreed, beginning the whipping around an eye splice. He made the turns as tight as he could — Bowyer had always said that you could tell a seaman by his ropework.

  “Was it . . . hot work on deck?” he asked, in a noncommittal tone.

  “Hot enough,” Renzi replied.

  Kydd wanted to share his newfound secret with his friend. “Heard a good enough piece of philosophy not so long ago,” he began, and told Renzi of Stirk’s secret.

  “Oh, yes,” Renzi said. “Same base truth in Julius Caesar: ‘Cowards die many times before their death / The valiant never taste of death but once.’ ” He finished his splice with a workmanlike tuck, testing its strength. “Act two, scene two, I’d hazard.” He saw Kydd’s expression. “But tha
t is not to detract from the essential verities in both sayings,” he added hurriedly. “Perhaps one day we will sail to the Orient — I have a morbid desire to imbibe their metaphysics at the source.”

  France was a dim gray coastline on the horizon as the three ships proceeded under easy sail, the tasks of repair never-ending. As the adrenaline of the battle fell away, and fatigue set in, it was hard to keep going, but it was double tides — working watch and watch without a break — to get the ships seaworthy and battleworthy once more.

  A double tot of rum went far to ease the pain. Kydd felt detached from his aches, and spoke out loudly: “A great maulin’ — they outnumbered and outgunned us, but we saw ’em back to their stinking lair! A thunderin’ good drubbin’!”

  “Do you think so?” Renzi said, without looking up.

  “Why? Do you not? We’ve sent ’em back to where they came from — they won’t try it again.”

  “My dear fellow, in the larger scheme of things, this will be seen as a passing brush with a few of their ships-of-the-line — and you are forgetting one thing.” Renzi stopped and looked at Kydd.

  “What’s that?”

  “Those four came from Douarnenez and now they are in Brest.”

  “So?”

  “So they have successfully concentrated their force. I don’t believe they were headed for the Caribbean anyway. It was always a move to bring about this very thing.”

  Kydd remained silent.

  “We did not bring the action to a conclusion, the enemy escaped us. Now there are nine of-the-line in Brest. They can sweep us aside and fall on our convoys and possessions at any time. I doubt if this afternoon will even be dignified as a battle.” Renzi resumed his whipping on the rope.

  Kydd glared at him. “I need a bigger fid,” he said shortly, and disappeared over the edge of the mizzen top.

  Renzi was right, of course — if he had stopped to think he would have come to the same conclusion. It was just that he was exhilarated by his first fight against the enemy. He had not found himself wanting: he had passed through horror and hardships and he was determined to revel in the feeling.

  He stepped out of the mizzen shrouds onto the poop deck, and into the path of Midshipman Cantlow. “Well, now, the dam’ keen Mr. Kydd.” There was a drunken slur to the words and he slapped at his side with an old rattan.

  Kydd said nothing, but stood impassive. The last thing he needed now was a run-in with the despised Cantlow.

  “An’ I’ve just caught him skulking in the tops!”

  Kydd snorted. Although a midshipman was not an officer, they equated to a petty officer in terms of discipline. The charge of hiding to avoid work was nonsense, of course — the boatswain himself had set them to their tasks. His jaw clamped shut as he forced himself to say nothing. Cantlow, if ever he got his promotion, would be of the same dangerous mold as Garrett.

  “Say somethin’, then, damn your whistle!” Cantlow shouted.

  Kydd knew better than to open his mouth while the midshipman was in this mood.

  “You’re in contempt, you vile lubber! Contempt! I’ll teach you manners!” His rattan swept up and caught Kydd on his upraised arm.

  Kydd threw up his other arm to protect his face, which seemed to enrage Cantlow. Slashing and whipping, he forced Kydd back to the bulwark, continuing the assault there mercilessly until he was forced to pause, panting.

  Dangerously angry, Kydd glared at Cantlow. He remembered Cantlow’s witless shambling on the gundeck during the worst of the fight and suspected the real reason for the drinking.

  “Afright now, are you, Mr. Keen Kydd! Then take this, you shy rogue!”

  His arm lifted again, but before the blow landed Kydd snatched the rattan out of his grip and with one hand snapped it in two.

  Cantlow stood aghast. His eyes widened and he backed away. “Master-at-Arms — sentry!” he yelled, his voice high and constricted.

  The officer of the watch on the quarterdeck below appeared irritably, moving out from the break of the poop to see what all the fuss was about. It was Garrett.

  The bilboes were situated down in the orlop, in the cockpit. They consisted of a long bar of iron on which leg irons were threaded and Kydd was the only occupant, his ankles clamped in the irons, sitting uncomfortably on the hard deck. He was shaking with fury, as much from Cantlow’s shameless toadying to Garrett as the lies the midshipman had told. He tried to turn over to take a new position but the irons would not budge. He swore helplessly.

  Renzi could not visit him — the bilboes were outside the midshipmen’s berth among other things, and Cantlow would surely make certain that Renzi stood accused of plotting with Kydd.

  The weak yellow light guttered and the marine sentry coughed and hacked endlessly. It would be a long night before Kydd could account for himself to the Captain in the morning.

  * * *

  “Right, mate, get to yer feet — ’tis yer time to explain yerself.” The ship’s corporal was not unkind, letting Kydd rub his ankles and stretch before moving off. They threaded their way to the main hatch, watched curiously as they passed.

  Kydd felt the stares and lifted his chin. The Captain would see his part — Bowyer had taught him that the King’s Service was hard, but in the end fair, which was more than could be said for justice ashore. He marched forward confidently.

  They emerged from the main companionway onto the quarterdeck. Kydd, bleary-eyed and disheveled after a sleepless night, was taken by surprise at the scene. Every eye was on him: hands had been mustered aft in the usual fashion, marines lining the poop rail, the officers below. A space of deck lay between him and a sea of men facing him from the opposite direction.

  Tyrell looked at him dispassionately as he was brought forward to where Caldwell stood behind his lectern.

  “Orf hat!” the Master-at-Arms said. “Ordinary Seaman Kydd, sir, did use threatenin’ language to a superior orficer, sir, did offer violence to the orficer and did use insultin’ words, sir.” He stepped back.

  Kydd looked up into his captain’s eyes. The same intelligent and gentle blue eyes — but there was weakness in the downswept lines at the side.

  “These are serious charges, Kydd,” Caldwell began mildly. He glanced at Cantlow and back. “I hope they will not be proven.”

  “No, sir,” Kydd replied firmly.

  “Silence!” the Master-at-Arms roared.

  Kydd snatched a side-glance at Cantlow. He was in his best uniform and rested his hand on his dirk. His face was expressionless. Close behind stood Garrett.

  “Are there any witnesses?” Caldwell asked.

  “Sir!” snapped Garrett, and stepped over to the Captain’s side, facing Kydd. “I saw it all, the rogue.”

  “What did you see?” Caldwell enquired gently.

  “That rascal — that villain — ”

  “Have a care, Mr. Garrett.”

  “I saw him ranting at Mr. Cantlow after being remonstrated with for skulking in the tops.”

  “And?”

  “And Kydd seized Mr. Cantlow’s rattan and offered to ‘fetch him a polter on his noggin,’ begging your pardon, sir.”

  “Ah.”

  “That is not all, sir. I snatched the rattan from Kydd and broke it over my knee, at which he let fly with a stream of insults, which I will not trouble you to repeat.”

  A murmuring spread out over the crowded mass of seamen.

  “I see.” Caldwell looked at Kydd for a long moment, then turned back to Garrett. “It seems fairly clear to me . . .” he said.

  Garrett could not help a quick look of triumph at Cantlow.

  “. . . that you yourself, sir, stand guilty of the gravest dereliction of duty!”

  Garrett was stupefied.

  “Were you not officer of the watch? Speak up, man!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “Then why, pray, were you absent from your place of duty on the quarterdeck, and at the mizzen shrouds on the poop, when the safety of this ship depends on your
vigilance and proximity to the helm? Hey, sir? Which is it, man? You saw it all and were absent from your place of duty, or you didn’t see it at all? Well? You are stood down, and will wait upon me later to explain your actions.” Caldwell drew a scented handkerchief from his sleeve and touched his mouth. “I will therefore ignore this testimony and call Mr. Cantlow.” Cantlow stepped up and touched his hat. “It is customary to remove your headgear when addressing your captain, Mr. Cantlow. I find merely touching the hat an irritating modern affectation.”

  Cantlow flushed and took off his hat.

  “Now, sir, what are the essentials of the charge?”

  Cantlow’s eyes slid over to Kydd and back. “I caught this man skulking in the mizzen top, sir, and — ”

  “One moment. Let us settle that matter first.”

  “Pass the word for the boatswain!”

  The cry was taken up and, as if on cue, the burly figure of the boatswain appeared. He did not look at Kydd.

  “What was this man doing in the mizzen top?” Caldwell enquired.

  “Sir, Ordinary Seaman Kydd was, agreeable to my orders, engaged in puttin’ an eye in the mizzen topsail slabline, afore it’s meant to be rereeved,” he growled.

  “Thank you. Mr. Cantlow?”

  Cantlow hesitated, then blurted, “He wouldn’t speak!”

  Caldwell’s eyebrows rose.

  “Er, sir! He-he just stood there in dumb insolence. What was I to think, sir?”

  “I would have thought that was obvious, but we’ll let it go. The insults, if he didn’t speak?” Caldwell began tapping his feet.

  Cantlow’s eyes fell. They rose again obstinately. “I have a witness, sir.”

  A ripple of disquiet spread through the men. Kydd sensed their presence behind him and was comforted — Bowyer had been right: if you were innocent you had nothing to fear.

  “Oh?”

  “Able Seaman Jeakes, sir.”

  “Pass the word for Jeakes.”

  A gangling black man pushed his way diffidently forward, his old canvas hat passing from hand to hand nervously.