The pothouse erupted. 'Fight's on, be gob, an' me bung's on Dobbie.'
This was going to be a legendary match to be talked of for years. The crush was stifling, but Laffin cleared the way with his fists and they passed through the damp sawdust and sweaty, shoving humanity to the sudden cool of the outside air. It was a small inner courtyard with rickety weathered buildings on all four sides. In the centre, sitting on a standard seaman's chest, was Dobbie.
Kydd stopped as the significance of the chest crowded in on him. This was not going to be a fight according to Queensberry's rules: this was a traditional way of the lower deck to settle the worst of grudges—across a sea- chest. They would sit facing each other over its length, lashed in place, to batter at each other until one yielded or dropped senseless.
To back away now was impossible. He had to go through with it. He took in Dobbie's deep chest and corded arms. His fists were massive and strapped up with darkened, well-used leather. There was no doubt that Kydd was in for heavy punishment.
The men and women in the courtyard were shouting obscene encouragement to Dobbie, urging him to take it out on an officer while he had the chance. A hoot of laughter started up at the back of the crowd and Kydd's servant was propelled to the front.
'Tysoe!'
'Sir, sir—' He had a bundle clutched to his chest, and his frightened eyes caught Kydd's. 'I came, sir, I—I came—'
'He's come t' drag Tom Cutlass home after, like,' chortled Dean. It was the first Kydd had heard of any lower- deck nickname—from the desperate time fighting in the boat when his sword had broken and he had taken up a familiar cutlass. Strangely, it strengthened his resolve.
'Don't worry, Tysoe, I'll see ye right!' Kydd said forcefully, above the crowd.
The laughter died as the men sensed the time had come. Kydd looked directly at Dobbie, who returned the look with a glittering-eyed malignity. 'Get on wi' it, yer sluggards!' screamed one woman, her cries taken up by the baying circle of men. Scowling, Akins turned to Kydd. 'Get y'r gear off, then, mate.'
Kydd pulled off his shirt, feeling the icy cold wind playing on his bare torso. There was a stir of amazed comment as the stretched and distorted scars criss-crossing his back were recognised for what they were: a relic of the long-ago agony of lashes from a cat-of-nine-tails at a grating. The woman's screeches diminished and the crowd subsided.
Laffin produced cords and Kydd took his place at the other end of the chest, feeling the feral impact of Dobbie's presence, his heart racing at the carnage about to be wrought. The ropes cut into his legs, but his eyes rose to lock on Dobbie's.
'Are ye ready, gemmun?' Akins had no watch, no tools of a referee—this was going to be a smashing match. A thin, cold rain began, chilling Kydd's skin and running into his eyes, mixing with salt sweat, stinging and distracting. He raised his fists slowly, his heart hammering. Dobbie responded, holding his low for a first murderous punch, his pale, unblinking eyes locked on Kydd's.
Akins raised his arm, looking at each in turn. His eyes flickered once and the arm sliced down. 'Fight!' he yelled and leaped aside.
For one split second, Dobbie held Kydd's eyes, then cut loose with a bellow. 'No!' he roared, dropping his arms. 'Be buggered! I'll not do it!'
The crowd fell into an astonished silence, staring at Dobbie. He thrust his head forward, his fists by his side. 'Take a swing, mate—come on, make it a settler.'
Kydd, shaken but suddenly understanding, obliged with a meaty smack to the jaw, which rocked Dobbie. Laffin came forward with his knife and severed the ropes. Dobbie got to his feet. He shook his head and turned to the rowdy crush. 'Shipmates!
Y' came t' see a grudge fight, an' I'm sorry I can't give yez one. See, this 'ere is Tom Kydd as I remember fr'm the Nore—I saw 'im stand alongside Dick Parker 'n' them in the mutiny when others were runnin' like rats. But I thought as 'ow 'e got 'is pardon by sellin' out his mates, an' I told him so.
'Mates, if y' wants a lesson in honour, Mr Kydd's yer man. Won't stand fer anyone takin' 'im fer a villain without 'e stands up fer 'isself, an' that's why 'e sees me 'ere—a duel, like. An I 'ave ter say, I didn't reckon 'e'd 'ave the sand t' see it through, sling 'is mauley like a good 'un, 'im bein' an officer an' all.'
He turned back to Kydd and touched his forehead. 'I'd take it kindly in ye should y' shake m' hand, sir.'
A roar of wild applause burst out, going on and on, until Dobbie held up his arms. 'M' lads—I want yer t' unnerstand, this 'ere Kydd is one of us, but 'e's done good fer 'imself, an' that's no crime. An' I f'r one is going ter foller Lootenant Kydd.'
'All bets 'r off, gennelmen!' bawled Akins.
The press of spectators broke into riotous commotion. Kydd's comprehension of events rapidly disintegrated— he was being slapped on the back and idolised by dozens of drunken seamen. An unwilling Tysoe was plied with beer; women's gleeful painted faces danced before him; and Dobbie, now the centre of a throng of seamen, was telling the story of the great mutiny of the Nore.
Admiral Vandeput and his squadron returned three days later, joining
Clutching the precious pouch of despatches and confidential signal information, Kydd hauled himself up the side and took Renzi's hand. 'I'd thought to see you flag-lieutenant b' now,' he said.
'Flag-lieutenant? Not if the present incumbent can help it.' Renzi chuckled drily. 'And while you've been in this Arcadia resting, I've been privy to secrets concerning the cod fishery that would stand you amazed, dear fellow.'
'You'll tell me of y'r secrets this very afternoon. You get y'r gear inboard while I get these t' Captain Houghton. I have it from on high that the adm'ral will want t' have his squadron to sea f'r exercises as soon as he's stored— that's t'morrow, I'll wager.'
