Three days later, back aboard Duke William, Kydd and Bowyer were with the starboard watch up on the topsail yard, shaking out a reef. In the maintop sailors swore heartily when the inexperienced officer of the watch let the ship come into the wind. Ponderously, the seventy-five-foot yard swung as the wind caught the sail momentarily aback, then more sharply swayed it back – to bring up hard against the braces.
One moment Kydd was standing watching for orders, the next he heard a brief cry and turned to see a gap where Bowyer had been shortly before. He stared down and saw men hurrying over to a still form, face down and at a distorted angle. For a moment he was stunned. Then, in a rising storm of feelings he shouted, shrieked – and flew down the shrouds.
A small crowd had gathered around Bowyer. Kydd thrust past, distraught at the spreading dark wet stain beneath. Gently he pulled Bowyer around to face upward. His eyes were closed and he was very pale, blood issuing from his nose and ears. His breathing was unnatural; harsh and stertorous.
“Where’s the doctor?” Kydd’s hoarse cry rose above the hushed voices. He cradled the barely breathing Bowyer, feeling the warmth seeping from his body.
“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.
“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.”
“If it does not pain you.”
“No, the pain is past.” He glanced at Kydd, feeling drawn to the intensity in the strong, open face.
“However, be so good as to bear with me for a space…” He paused for a long moment, then continued, “For philosophical reasons, which appear sufficiently cogent to me, I am denied the felicity of the company of my peers. This is not the result of a criminal act, I hasten to assure you.”
Kydd could see that Renzi was having difficulty speaking of his burden and wondered if it had anything to do with his peculiar beliefs. “Then, sir, I will not speak of it again.”
Renzi said nothing but Kydd saw the pain in his eyes. The deeply lined face spoke of complexities of experience at which he could only guess.
A silence fell between them. Sounds from the watch on deck faintly carried up to their eyrie.
“I beg you will tell me more of this philosophy, er, Mr. Renzi,” Kydd said.
“Upon a more suitable occasion, perhaps, Mr. Kydd.”
“Tom.”
“Nicholas.”
The cutter went about around their stern and came smartly up into the wind bare yards away, the brailed-up mainsail flogging violently. A heav ing line shot up and was seized; canvas-covered despatches followed quickly. Mission performed, sail was shaken out again and the despatch cutter bore away.
“All the haaands! Hands lay aft!” The pipe came within the hour – it did not need much imagination to guess that something was afoot.
Salter was quite sure. “The Frogs have signed a peace, and we’re on our way home.”
“Nah – pocky knaves like that, they want ter bring us down first. It’ll be the rest o’ the Fleet comin’ to help.”
Stirk was more skeptical, but ready to listen. “Let the dog see the rabbit, Doggo,” he said, elbowing him to one side.
The Captain stepped forward to the poop rail. “We have been entrusted with a mission.” He paused, looking around him, delicately touching his mouth with a fine handkerchief before replacing it in the sleeve of his heavy gold-laced coat. “A mission that could see the beginning of the end for that vile gang of regicides.”
There was quiet. A mission did not sound like something that could end the war – that would take a great battle involving the rest of the Fleet – but anything that offered a break from the monotony of sailing up and down on blockade duty would be welcome.
“We, together with Royal Albion and Tiberius, have won the opportunity to dart a lance into the very belly of the enemy. We are going to join with true Frenchmen who will rejoice to see their nation restored to its former glory – and make our landing together on the shores of France.
“You will all have heard how the wretches murdered their officers and govern their affairs by citizens’ council. The rabble will retire in confusion under our disciplined advance. We will thrust deep into the heart of France, sweeping all before us, and bring to an end this squalid regime.”
A restless muttering rippled through the men crowded on deck and in the lower rigging. An armed descent on the mainland of Europe?
“Mr. Tyrell leads our contribution, which will be two hundred men. He will be assisted by Mr. Lockwood and Mr. Garrett. They will be protected by the marines, for we shall be landing four guns, complete with equipment. As I speak, a strong force of Royalists is marching from across the Cherbourg peninsula to join with us. Our objective will be to free the great old town of Rennes and, having established our position there, we will be reinforced for the big advance to Paris – and victory! But by then we will long be returned on board. You need have no fear that you will be turned into redcoats.
“Now I am asking for volunteers – and might I add that they will certainly share in whatever spoils of war Providence brings.”
Significant looks were exchanged. This was far more to the point than grand strategy.
“Volunteers may approach the First Lieutenant after dinner. God save the King!”
“Damn right I’m going. Not set foot ashore in eight months.” Whaley’s eyes gleamed.
“Want to clap eyes on them French women – wouldn’t repel boarders should a saucy piece lay alongside!” declared Doud, his lewd gestures leaving no doubt as to his meaning.
Claggett did not join in. “Might be things are different to what you thinks,” he said.
Howell sniffed. “What d’ye mean?”
Claggett leaned over. “I went in with the boats at Los Cayos and we suffered somethin’ cruel. Moskeeters, stinkin’ heat, an’ never a morsel o’ meat one day’s end to the next. Cruel, I tells yer – you’ll see.”
Howell sneered. “Anyways, no chance o’ that where youse are going! Just goin’ to get yerselves separated from yer head by this here gillo-tin!”
“What about you, Tom?” Whaley said, tapping a piece of hard tack.
“Could do with a stretch o’ the legs,” Kydd said casually.
“Ye’re all bloody mad,” said Howell. “Mantrap and Shaney Jack both – it’ll be seven bells of hell for all hands wi’ them two. I’m stayin’ aboard, where they won’t be at.”
At supper, Kydd eased into place opposite Renzi. “We join up with the Fleet in the morning, I’ve heard,” Kydd said to him.
Renzi responded slowly, “Yes, I believe we shall.”
“You volunteered.” Kydd had been just as surprised as the others.
“As did you.”
Renzi looked away, then back. “In the dog-watch it is my pleasure to take a pipe of tobacco on the fo’c’sle, should the weather prove tolerable.”
Kydd’s father smoked a long churchwarden pipe, but he had never taken up the habit. “I don’t take tobacco m’self, but were you to need company…”
“Then I should be honored.”
The fo’c’sle deck in the dog-watches was a place of sanctuary for the seamen. Out of sight of the quarterdeck, sailors chatted in ones or twos, spinning yarns and making merry. Some sat on the deck reading or sewing. Right at the forward end of the squared-off deck, before the massive carved work of the beakhead dropped away below, was a splendid place to be. On either side the busy wash of the bow-wave spread as the great bluff bow shouldered the waves arrogantly aside. Sliding aft, it rejoined the other side past the ornate stern to disappear into the distance in a ruler-straight line over the gray Atlantic. The jibboom thrust out ahead, the headsails soaring up to the tops and beyond, taut and eager. They dipped and rose with great dignity, it seemed to Kydd.
The vista seemed to please Renzi too. “There is a certain harmony in some works of man which I cannot but find sublime,” he said, as they stood together above the beakhead. From inside his jacket he found his clay pipe, which he filled from an oilskin pouch.
Kydd waited until Renzi had his pipe drawing well, using the flame of a lanthorn swinging in the shrouds. He settled on the deck next to him.
“Have you thought, dear fellow, that tomorrow we could well be fighting for our lives?”
Renzi spoke so quietly that Kydd thought at first he was talking to himself. “Er, not really, no. But I’m sure that His Majesty will triumph over his enemies,” Kydd added stiffly.
“Of course. Have you ever seen a battle?” The pipe was giving Renzi much satisfaction – he held it delicately by the stem near the bowl, luxuriating in the acrid fragrance.
“Not as one might say a battle,” Kydd answered. The excitement of the militia being turned out to quell an apprentices’ riot would probably not count.
Renzi inspected his pipe. “Then pray do not wish it – a battle. It must be the most odious and disagreeable occupation of man known.” He caught something of Kydd’s suspicions, for he hastened to add, “Yet some must be accounted inevitable – desirable, even.”
“Does this mean that you – do not -”
“It does not. I will not seek glory in battle, but the rational course for personal survival is not to be found in turning one’s back. You will not find me shy, I think.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean -”
“We are to haul guns, I find. There will be precious little chance for laurels in that.” He looked sideways at Kydd, with an amused expression.
“You wished to confide some matter t’ me,” Kydd said abruptly.
Renzi’s face set. “Perhaps,” he said.
Kydd waited.
After several more draws at the long clay pipe Renzi spoke. “I come from a family of landowners in Buckinghamshire. We were – are not wanting in the article of wealth, you may believe.” He paused, collecting his thoughts. “My education has been thorough and complete, and includes experiences which – of which I am no longer proud. I knew only the life of the indolent, the uncaring and unseeing – I confess, I knew no better. We have many tenant farmers, but my father was not content. His interest allowed him to see a Bill of Enclosure through Parliament that enabled him to increase his holdings. I conceive you know of enclosures?”
“Yes,” said Kydd quietly, “I do. I share the name of Thomas Paine.”
Renzi’s lips thinned. “Then you know with what misery they are enforced, what hardship and want they can cause. It did not stop my father from sequestrating lands that had been under careful cultivation for centuries. In particular one small cottager did break his heart at the prospect – it did not move my father one whit. But it was when the bailiffs marched in to seize the land that they found the man’s eldest and the hope of the family, whom I knew well, hanging by his neck in the barn.” Renzi went on slowly. “My beliefs – I will not bore you – include a devotion to the Rationalist cause. A young man died. Legally there is no blame, but in the moral sensibility, it is as if we had tied the noose with our own hand.”
Kydd’s eyes narrowed.
“My family disowned the consequences of their actions. Were I to do likewise, then I would share in the crime. But if I acknowledge it, then logic – and I am a friend to logic – owns that a penalty must be served. And in my case, as judge and jury, I did pronounce sentence – which is to be five years’ exile from home and hearth.” Renzi looked away and added, a little too lightly, “A small price for an eased conscience, I believe.”
Kydd had no idea what subtleties could drive a man to such a conclusion, but he found himself respecting and admiring the action. “Do y’ not find the life – hard?” he said.
“There are worse things to be borne, my friend.”
“How long – I mean -”
“It is but ten months of the first year.”
Kydd had the insight to feel something of the bleakness of spirit that would have to be overcome, what it must have cost a cultivated man brutally to repress his finer feelings. He guessed that the reclusiveness would be part of Renzi’s defenses and was ashamed of his previous animosity. “Then, sir, you have my sincere admiration.” Kydd clapped him on the shoulder.
Renzi’s hand briefly touched his, and Kydd was startled to see his eyes glisten. “Don’t concern yourself on my account, I beg,” Renzi said, drawing away. “It has just been an unconscionable long time.”
In the morning, with the squadron wearing in succession and standing in for the French coast to the eastward, the enterprise had begun. They were under easy sail, for the transports from Plymouth would not reach them for another two days-but the time would not be wasted.
“Let’s be seein’ you now. All move over to larb’d, clap your eyes on this ’ere fugleman.” The Master-at-Arms indicated a marine, rigid at attention with his musket.
The men jostled over to leeward and faced the red-coated and pipeclayed marine with a mixture of distrust and interest. His sergeant glaring at him from one side and the Master-at-Arms on the other, he moved not a muscle.
“This man is a-going to pro-ceed through the motions of loadin’ an’ dischargin’ a musket. You will pay stric’ attention ’cos afterward you will do it.” He paused and surveyed the restless seamen. “Anyone can’t do it perfick by six bells joins me awkward squad in the first dog. Issue weapons!”
The gunner’s party opened an arms chest and passed out muskets.
Curiously Kydd inspected the plain but heavy firelock. It seemed brutish compared to the handsome length and damascened elegance of the parson’s fowling piece; this one had dull, pockmarked wood, a black finished barrel and worn steel lockwork, more reminiscent of some industrial machine.
“For them who haven’t seen one before, I’ll name th’ main parts.”
Within a bare minute Kydd had the essentials: the frizzen covering the pan had to be struck by a piece of flint, which would send a spark to set off the priming in the pan and thence to the cartridge. He looked doubtfully at the muzzle – the thumb-sized bore meant a heavy ball, and this implied a hefty kick.
“Right. We go through the motions first without a cartridge. First motion, half cock yer piece.”
The fugleman briskly brought his musket across his breast and like clockwork brought it to half cock.
The seamen of the gunner’s party went along the line, correcting and cursing by turns. The action of the recurved cock felt stiff and hostile to Kydd – but then it was necessary for a sea-service weapon to avoid delicate niceties.
“Second motion, prime your piece.”
Priming was not difficult to imagine. Brush the frizzen forward, shake in the priming, shut it again.
“Third motion, charge your piece.”
Take the remaining cartridge powder and ball, and insert it in the muzzle. Ram it down with the wooden rammer.
“Present your weapon.”
Lock to full cock. It took a moment to realize that the words meant to aim the musket – present the muzzle end to the enemy.
“Fire!” The finger drawing at the trigger, never jerking – a satisfying metallic clack and momentary spark.
“Rest.” The Master-at-Arms seemed content. “By numbers, one, half cock.”
They went through the drill again and again until it was reflexive, the fugleman never varying in his brisk timing.
Finally the order came. “Issue five rounds ball cartridge!”
The cartridges felt ominously heavy, a dull lead ball with a wrapped parchment cartridge. Kydd put them in his pocket. Nervously he gripped his weapon and waited for the word to fire.
“First six! You, to you with the red kerchief – step over here to wind’d.”
Kydd stepped over as number three.
“Face outboard – number one, load yer weapon.”
The first man went through the drill. The man bit off the top of the cartridge and spat it out. The rammer did its work. A quarter gunner inspected his priming, making sure the powder grains covered the pan but no more, and the man looked at the Master-at-Arms.
“At the ’orizon – present!”
The musket rose and steadied.
“Fire!”
All within a fraction of a second – a click, fizz and bang. Gouts of whitish smoke propelled outward to be blown back over them all before clearing.
Roars of laughter eased the tension. As the smoke cleared the man was to be seen picking himself up from the deck. He had not been prepared for the mule-like kick. Kydd resolved to do better.
“Number two!” The man next to Kydd loaded his weapon. He was clearly nervous, and twice made blunders.
“Present!”
The barrel visibly trembled as it was trained, and the man unconsciously held the thick butt away from his shoulder, anticipating the recoil. Cruelly the Master-at-Arms affected not to notice.
“Fire!”
The musket slammed back and with undamped impetus caught the man’s shoulder a savage blow.
With a cry of pain the man dropped his weapon, which clattered noisily to the deck.
“Now you all knows to hold the butt tight into yer shoulder. Number three!”
Kydd loaded his musket, carefully looking to the priming, ramming the ball vigorously down.
“Present!”
He raised the barrel and tucked the butt firmly into his shoulder. The tiny crude foresight settled on the horizon, but without a backsight or other cues Kydd decided to ignore it.
“Fire!”
Leaning into it, he pressed the trigger. The ear-ringing blam of the discharge sounded peculiarly less for his own piece than it had when he was standing sideways from the others, he noted. The recoil was heavy, but under control, and he lowered the musket with a swelling satisfaction.
The drill continued until every man had fired two rounds, after which half a dozen of them were called forward, the remainder relieved of their weapons.
“These men will fire at the mark.”
This would be a round cask end dangling from the fore yardarm and steadied with a guy. The men took position on the poop.
“Number one, three rounds!”
At a range of a couple of hundred feet it was not surprising that there were no hits. Disappointed, the man stepped down.
“Number two!”
His first ball took the target near its edge, and it kicked spectacularly. A buzz of excited comment, and the next shot. It missed – the man reloaded quickly, blank-faced. Carefully he brought the musket up and squinted down the barrel. He left it too long – the muzzle wavered with fatigue, and after the musket banged off, the cask end still hung innocently.
There was a shout of derision and the man stepped down disconsolately.
Kydd moved forward. There was an undercurrent of muttering and he guessed that wagers were being taken. He loaded, took position, and the chattering died away. He took a long look at the cask end and brought the musket up, sighting along the barrel. The three-feet-wide target seemed to have shrunk in the meantime, for the merest quiver set the muzzle off the mark. Kydd tried to make sense of the single foresight, then remembered his recent experience and abandoned it. The sighting picture blurred, but in an act of pure instinct, he focused only on the target and let his body point through the gun at the mark.
He drew on the trigger – he heard the distant thock before the smoke cleared to reveal the target swaying from a solid hit. He was more surprised than elated.
A buzz of excitement went through the spectators, which died away to silence when he reloaded and took aim once more. He repeated the unconscious pointing and miraculously the target took another hit.
“Silence!” the Master-at-Arms roared, in the sudden commotion.
There must be more to it than this, thought Kydd, and at his last shot he tried to put more science into his aim. The little foresight settled on the target, Kydd finding it difficult to focus on both at the same time.
He knew immediately he pulled the trigger that he had missed, and a spreading sigh from the crowd confirmed it was so.
“Well done, lad – two of three is better’n most,” the Master-at-Arms said.
At conclusion of the exercise Kydd was called over. “M’duty to Mr. Tewsley, and you are to ’ave an extra tot at seven bells.”
“Nasty piece o’ work, them muskets!” Claggett muttered.
“Why’d y’ say that?” Kydd asked.
“If you was in a frigate, yer wouldn’t ask!” Claggett replied with feeling. “You’s servin’ the upper deck midships guns with yer mates, all open t’ the sky, an’ it’s a right smashin’ match, yardarm ter yardarm. Then yer see that yer mates are gettin’ picked orf, one after the other as they’re busy workin’ the guns. You wonder when it’s goin’ to be your turn next. An’ it’s all ’cos they have these buggers with muskets in the tops firin’ down on yer ’n’ you can do nothin’ about it – a-tall.” He drained his pot and glared at Kydd. “Ain’t fer sailors!” he said forcefully.
“Bear away, shipmate,” Doud said. “Kydd may get to settle a Frenchy or two fer you in a couple o’ days!”
In the dog-watches the novelty of imminent action ashore lifted spirits and animated conversations. But it also generated nervous energy that found its release in yet more drill – close-quarters combat.
Kydd realized that this was a totally different affair. Instead of action at a distance, as with any gun, this would be a matter of man to man. The first to make a mistake would surely find himself choking his life out on his own blood. He wondered if he could stand up against some fierce bull of a Frenchman violently intent on his destruction. His imagination produced an image of a big sans-culotte, mustachioed, face distorted with hatred and closing in to batter down his guard and hack him to pieces. Kydd tried to focus instead on Lieutenant Lockwood.
“As you are new men, I will commence by mentioning the weapons you may be called upon to employ. First, we have the boarding pike.” He moved over to the mainmast and selected one from the circle set around the base of the mast. “It is only used to repel boarders, but it is remarkably effective in that role.” Lockwood passed it over. He had a cool, detached manner, which only added to the menace of what he said.
The pike passed from hand to hand, and Kydd gripped it nervously. Slender but strong, it had at its tip a concentrated forged and ground spike. It was seven feet long, and he could not help but wonder what he would do if called away as a boarder to be faced with these pointing at him from the enemy decks.
“And this is a tomahawk,” Lockwood continued, holding up a vicious-looking small axe with a blade on one side and a spike on the other. “You will find that this is actually quite useful also in dealing with cordage, grappling irons and other impedimenta.” He passed it over too. “When boarding an enemy ship you will have two pistols. These are useless” – he fixed the men with a meaningful look -“at more than a few feet range. If you decide to fire, discharge the pistol into the face of your opponent. The piece is then useless – you will certainly have no time to reload – but then you are possessed of a fine club.” Nobody laughed. “Or throw it away.” He reached behind him and produced a bundle of equipment.
The restless stirring died down, each man detecting a change in Lockwood’s manner.
“But this is your main weapon. It is the boarder’s best friend and you will practice its use constantly from now on until it can be relied upon in mortal combat to save your life, and therefore to take your enemy’s.”
Kydd watched, hypnotized, as Lockwood slipped on the equipment. There was a belt around the waist and a cross-belt over the shoulders. A scabbard hung on his left side from which, with a steely hiss, he drew a deadly-looking implement. “The sea-service cutlass!”
An arms chest lay on the gratings, and each man was told to take one. There were no scabbards, so Kydd stood with the weapon awkwardly in his hand. The cutlass was heavy, the wide working blade of dull speckled steel with a thin shine of oil, sharp on one side and coming to a robust point. The ropework hilt was almost enclosed with a black guard, which was plain and workmanlike. Kydd wondered whose blood the weapon had already tasted.
“If there is one lesson that I want to teach you, it is this one,” and Lockwood called to an assisting seaman. The man came at him in slow motion. He raised his cutlass to deal a devastating slash down on the officer’s unprotected head.
They both paused for a count of two.
“Watch!” commanded Lockwood.
They resumed their motions, but as the sailor’s blow descended, Lockwood simply extended his arm and the tip of his cutlass rested on the breast of the seaman well before the man could connect with his own blade.
“This man deals the heavier blow – but now he is dead!” Lockwood said dramatically. “Thrust with the point always, never slash the blade. It only needs one inch of steel to decide the issue.”
The advice seared itself into Kydd’s mind.
“So, bearing that in mind, let us begin our drill. Robbard?”
Lockwood’s seaman took position sideways on and flourished his blade.
“First position.”
Robbard stood facing to his right, feet together, inviting attack.
“Right prove distance!”
He swung the cutlass warily out to his right.
“Front prove distance!”
The cutlass swept forward, the point weaving menacingly.
“Second position.”
Bending his knees, Robbard slammed his foot a pace forward; from this he was able to demonstrate how he could both attack and retreat rapidly without moving his feet.
There were four body postures, and they practiced them all.
The cutlass positions were more difficult; some out to the side but covering the upper body, some hanging vertically down; in all, seven possible moves. Lockwood himself demonstrated them.
After an hour’s work, he was able to bark a position and they could instantly assume it. “Guard – inside half hanger! Assault! St. George!”
Kydd could see how they fitted into a web of defensive and offensive moves – an outside guard, for instance, could well be the thing to ward off an assault, but in this he would wait and see. The main point seemed to be that for every act of offense there was a corresponding defensive move.
The cutlass felt less of a deadweight in his hands, but he knew that he would need much practice before he could feel confident – it would almost certainly save his life one day.
“Stand down – secure arms.”
Reluctantly Kydd handed in his cutlass and prepared to go below.
“Hold!” Lockwood called. “Prince o’ the poop!”
The seaman who had acted as his assistant grinned – then, snarling like a pirate, swarmed up the quarterdeck ladder to the poop deck. There he snatched up a wooden sword and flourishing it in the approved first position prepared to take on all comers. Lockwood smiled widely. “Robbard is defending, and is prince o’ the poop for now – but any man may challenge him for the title, if they dare!”
There were cheers and catcalls.
“The man who is in possession of the poop at eight bells receives from me a fine bottle of claret,” Lockwood declared.
The first man up was treated mercifully. Robbard circled him and tried a point. The man parried with an inside guard, which he tried to turn into an extended point of his own. Robbard saw it and swayed inside, tapping the man none too gently on the head. His opponent swore and started a furious assault, which Robbard met like a rock, his sword flicking this way and that in a monotonous clack, clok. The man tired and drew back, at which Robbard gave point and pierced the man’s hurried St. George while he was off balance.
Roars of appreciation greeted the defeated challenger ruefully descending the ladder. Rudely pushing him aside was the next man, an experienced able seaman with a tarry queue and thick-set body, who bounded up the ladder.
“Have at yer, Sharkey mate!” he shouted.
Robbard chuckled and came to guard.
They were well matched, and Kydd watched fascinated. They drove forward and back over the whole deck, their eyes holding each other unblinking as they thrust and parried.
Once Kydd had delivered an elaborate wig to the small fencing school in Chapel Street. He had stayed to watch, gripped by the deadly swordplay, the glitter of rapier blade, the slither and clash of steel on steel. The combatants had worn wire masks and the lethal questing of the blades as they probed and parried was carried out in chill silence, a ballet of death.
Here the pair grinned or stared ferociously by turns – Kydd guessed they would look different when boarding a hostile deck.
Kydd felt an elbow in his ribs and turned to see Whaley offering him a tankard. He accepted it gratefully and noticed that a crowd of appreciative onlookers had gathered. He turned back to the combat in time to see the two grappling – Robbard’s guard being slowly overborne by his adversary’s head stroke, pressing down. Their eyes were inches apart as they forced against each other, when suddenly Robbard let rip with a raucous raspberry. The other man jerked in surprise, and Robbard’s sweeping half-circle would have laid open the man’s ribs – according to the umpire.
“Damn me eyes, ’n’ I’ll challenge ye again!” shouted the man. It took a pot of grog to persuade him to yield the deck.
Robbard strutted about on the poop, whirling his wooden sword in the air and crowing, the crowd cheering him on. The easy sail left little for the watch on deck to do and they joined the spectacle. Over to the westward the spreading red of a sunset tinged the scene and its players a ruddy color.
“That’s your tie-mate, ain’t it, Tom?” Stirk gestured with his pot. There was a swirl in the crowd and there was Renzi, mounting the steps in lithe, decisive movements.
Robbard stopped his capering and sized up the challenger.
Renzi threw off his jacket and stood in his plain waistcoat, his dark eyes fixed on Robbard’s. He picked up his sword. A subdued murmur went up from the spectators.
Renzi said nothing, his mouth in a hard line, his expression ruthless. He stamped once or twice as if to test his footing, then whipped up his sword to the salute. Robbard mistook the move and came to a halfhearted guard, but did not return the salute.
Down came Renzi’s blade, flicking in short, testing movements like a snake’s tongue – darting, deadly. Robbard gave ground warily, circling to the left, all traces of comedy vanishing.
His forehead wrinkled in concentration, and when he finally made his attack it was in a burst of violence, his point thrust forward in a savage lunge. Renzi swayed coolly and in a beautiful inside half hanger deflected the thrust just enough to force Robbard to divert his energy into maintaining his balance. Almost casually Renzi took advantage of Robbard’s brief recovery and changed his guard to a point, which flashed out – and came to a stop at Robbard’s throat. The entire combat was over in just fifteen seconds.
Robbard stood motionless, the sword at his throat mute evidence of Renzi’s skills. His sword fell to the deck.
Seeing Renzi’s pitiless expression behind his motionless weapon, Kydd realized that there were depths to his friend’s character that he had never seen.
The hush was interrupted by Lockwood. “May I?” He mounted the ladder and took up the sword. Robbard returned to the deck below in a daze.
“On guard, sir!”
The two faced each other and warily saluted. Then it began – a fight to the death, a no-quarter combat that was almost too fast to follow.
Swordplay continued over the whole poop deck, the clacking of wood never detracting from the deadly seriousness of the business.
The red sunset faded to a short violet dusk and as lanthorns were brought Lockwood stepped back and grinned. “Sir – I yield! The claret is yours.”
Renzi nodded, and a small smile creased his face.