The mess-tables were rigged and the usual warm conviviality of a meal-time, enlivened by rum, rose noisily from the tables between the rows of guns. A few curious looks came his way, but in the main seamen were more interested in the gossip of the day and he was ignored.
Methodically, he removed his cocked hat. Then he took off his lieutenant's uniform coat and laid it carefully over his arm. By this time he had the attention of the nearest, who looked at him in astonishment.
He paced forward slowly, and with terrible deliberation. One by one the tables lapsed into an amazed silence, which grew and spread until the whole gun-deck fell into an unnatural quiet and men craned forward for a better view.
Kydd continued his walk, his face set and grim, eyes fixed forward in an unblinking stare. He was either right to trust— or he had lost everything. He passed the great jeer capstan, the mighty trunk of the mainmast, the main hatch gratings, his measured tread now sounding clear and solemn.
He halted abreast the fore capstan, his eyes still fixed forward. Slowly his gaze turned to one side: Dobbie sat, transfixed, at the mess by number-five gun. Kydd marched over. Not a man moved. He held Dobbie with his eyes, dropping his words into the silence. 'I'll be waiting for ye—the Mizzen tavern. At two, tomorrow.' Then he wheeled about and began the long walk back down the silent gun-deck.
In the privacy of his cabin Kydd buried his face in his hands. As an officer there was no question of how to deal with a slur on one's honour: a duel was the inevitable result. Dobbie was not a gentleman, therefore Kydd could not demean himself in calling him out. But this was a matter for the lower deck: different rules applied. By now the news would be already around the ship. It was too late for him to back away—and also for Dobbie.
Dobbie was big and a bruiser, well used to a mill. Kydd could take care of himself, but this was another matter. Of a surety he would be the loser, in all probability suffering a battering and disfiguring injury. But the result would be worth it. Never more would any man question his honour or integrity: Dobbie's word would be hollow against that of a man who had set aside the power and privileges that were his by right to defend his honour in the traditional way.
Kydd had no fear of it coming to the ear of the captain — or any other officer, for that matter. It would be common currency on the mess-decks and every seaman and petty officer would know of it, but it was their business and, as with so many other things, the quarterdeck never would hear of it.
He slept well: there was little to be gained in brooding on hypothetical events of the next day and in any case there was nothing he could do about it now that events had been set in train.
As he moved about the ship there were surreptitious looks, curious stares and a few morbid chuckles. He went below to find his servant. 'Er, Tysoe, there is something of a service I want you t' do for me.'
'Sir, don't do it, sir, please, I beg,' Tysoe said, with a low, troubled voice. 'You're a gentleman, sir, you don't have to go mixing with those villains.'
'I have to, an' that's an end to it.'
Tysoe hesitated, then asked unhappily, 'The service, sir?'
'Ah—I want you to find a fo'c'sle hand who c'n lend me a seaman's rig f'r this afternoon. Er, it'll be cleaned up after.'
'Sir.' But Tysoe did not leave, disconsolately shuffling his feet. 'Sir, I'm coming with you.'
'No.' Kydd feared he would be instantly discovered and probably roughed up: he could not allow it. 'No, but I thank ye for your concern.'
There was a fitful cold drizzle when Kydd stepped into the boat, which gave him an excuse to wear a concealing oilskin. Poulden was stroke; he had gruffly volunteered to see Kydd through to the Mizzen tavern, but made determined efforts not to catch his eye as he pulled strongly at his oar.
They landed at King's Slip. Without a word, Kydd and Poulden stepped out and the boat shoved off. The waterfront was seething with activity and they pushed through firmly to Water Street.
It was lined with crude shanties and pothouses; raw weathered timbers abuzz with noise, sailors and women coming and going, the stink of old liquor and humanity in the air. A larger hostelry sported a miniature mast complete with upper yards, jutting out from a balcony. 'The Fore, sir,' said Poulden, self-consciously. 'We has three inns; the Fore, the Main, 'n' the Mizzen, which, beggin' yer pardon, we understands t' be respectively the wildest, gayest an' lowest in Halifax.' Hoisted on the Fore's mast was the sign of a red cockerel, a broad hint to the illiterate of the pleasures within.
Kydd's heart thudded, but he was angry with Dobbie—not so much for trying such a scheme but for the slur on Kydd's character. His anger focused: whatever the outcome of the next few hours he would see to it that he left marks on Dobbie.
They swung down a side-street to see a crowd of jostling men outside an entrance with a small mizzen mast. 'Sir, gotta leave ye now.' Poulden returned the way he came, leaving Kydd on his own. His mouth dried. Screeches of female laughter and roars of appreciation at some unseen drunken feat filled the air. As a young seaman he'd been in places like this, but he had forgotten how wild and lawless they were.
'There he is! Told yer so!' Heads turned and Kydd was engulfed with a human tide that jollied him inside, all red faces and happy anticipation. A black-leather can was shoved at him, its contents spilling down his front. 'No, thank ye,' he said quickly, thrusting it away.
Women on the stairs looked at him with frank curiosity, some with quickening interest at his strong, good looks. A hard-featured seaman and two others tried to push through. 'Gangway, y' scrovy bastards, an' let a man see who it is then,' he grumbled.
'Akins, Master o' the Ring. I have t' ask, are ye Lootenant Kydd an' no other?' The taphouse broke into excited expectancy at Kydd's reply. He recognised both of the others: Dean, boatswain's mate of
'Are ye willing t' stand agin Bill Dobbie, L'tenant, the fight t' be fair 'n' square accordin' t' the rules?' There was a breathy silence. Bare-knuckle fighting was brutal and hard, but there were rules—the Marquess of Queensberry had brought some kind of order to the bloody business.
'Aye, I'm willing.'
