Quarterdeck

This was, dare I say it, the vanquished accepting terms from the victor!'

A storm of mixed protest and cheers broke out, obliging the constable to intervene. Dwight stood and waited for the uproar to diminish, then spoke firmly: 'Will the strangers now withdraw?'

Outside, Kydd paced rigidly, avoiding Junon's amused glances, as they waited for the meeting to come to a decision. It was not long before the hoots and shouts died away. After an interval the constable summoned them back.

'L'tenant, we have voted on the matter of your request,' Dwight said importantly. 'The township of Exbury has considered it, and as selectman I have to tell you your request is denied.'

Kydd's expression tightened, but he tried to put the best face on it, remembering to turn and bow to the people of the town.

'The business of this meeting is now concluded.'

The gathering broke up noisily and people streamed to the door. Dwight fiddled with his papers and, in a low voice, said to Kydd, 'I'm sendin' a rider to Hartford. This should be gov'ment business.'

Jacob Hay came forward with his hat in his hands. 'Jus' like t' say sorry it came out agin you, Mr Kydd, but as ye can see, the people spoke.' He put out his hand and Kydd could see that it was genuinely meant.

Outside, people were still in groups, some in animated discussion. Kydd could not remember when he had felt so isolated. A roar of laughter drew his attention: it was Darby, one of the hotheads of the morning's events at the French ship.

Kydd's blood rose as the man approached him. 'Y' lost yer vote, then,' he said loudly. Kydd could not trust himself to reply, but then Darby clapped him on the shoulder and said, 'No hard feelin's? I'd take it kindly if you'd sink a muzzler with us, friend.'

Kydd could not think what to say, but a surging need for the release of a drink and the rough companionship of a tavern overcame his wonder at American generosity of spirit. 'Aye, I would,' he said, and allowed himself to be taken to the Blue Anchor. The weatherboard tavern was already alive with humanity, and Kydd began to feel better. There were odd glances at his clothing, but Darby loudly announced his presence. 'What'll ye have?' he asked genially.

'Er, a beer?'

'Beer? That's spruce, birch, sassafras?'

A nearby toper closed his eyes and chanted, ' ' Oh, we can make liquor t' sweeten our lips —of pumpkins, o' parsnips or walnut-tree chips. ' '

'Aye, well, it's the sassafras, then.'

It was the strangest-tasting brew. 'Er, what do ye mix with this'n?' Kydd inquired carefully.

'We don't mix anythin', Mr Englishman. That's straight beer, it is, bit o' y'r beet tops, apple skin, roots all boiled in, gives it taste, o' course.'

Kydd downed it manfully, then called for something different. Darby slipped a china mug across to him. 'Flip— now there's a drink f'r a man.' Kydd lifted the creaming brew doubtfully and was not disappointed at the strength of the rum that lay within.

'To th' American flag!' Kydd called.

There was a surprised roar and Kydd found faces turning his way. The reddest called across to him, 'Well, I can't drink t' your king, friend, but I can t' your good health.'

The drink was doing its work and Kydd beamed at his new friends. In the corner a pitch-pipe was brought out and after a few tentative whistles two young men launched into song.

Come, join hand in hand, brave Americans all,

And rouse your bold hearts at fair Liberty's call;

No tyrannous acts shall suppress your just claim

Or stain with dishonour America's name!

'Let's hear an English song, then!' Darby demanded, grinning at Kydd and shoving another flip across.

'I'm no sort o' hand at singin',' protested Kydd, but was overborne. He thought for a moment, recalling what had most stirred him in times past. 'Well, this is a sea song, shipmates, an' we sing it around the forebitts forrard —an' I warn ye again, I'm no singer.'

Come, all ye jolly sailors bold,

Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould;

While English glory I unfold

On board o' the Arethusa!

He found his voice and rolled out the fine old words heartily.

And as he sang his mind roamed over the times and places where he had enjoyed the company of true deep- sea mariners in this way, beside him his shipmates through the gale's blast and the cannon's roar, and in all the seas over the globe. As he never would experience again.

Tears pricked and his voice grew hoarse, but in defiance he roared out the final stanza:

And now we've driven the foe ashore,

Never to fight with Britons more,

Let each fill a glass To his favourite lass;

A health to the captain and officers true

And all that belongs to the jovial crew

On board o' the Arethusa.

Something of his feeling communicated itself to the tavern: not a soul moved and when he finished there was a storm of acclamation. Even the pot-boy stood entranced and the tapster abandoned his post to stand agog.

'Ah, Mr Kydd—he'll have a whiskey o' your best sort, Ned,' one man said, and when Kydd had taken it, he raised his own glass and called, 'T' Mr Kydd an' his Royal Navy!'