Kydd

and the ship’s head began to move a little faster. They were now very near, close enough to make out on the decks of the other ship running figures, faces at the gunports, a lazy spiral of smoke from the galley chimney.

Beside him, Bowyer remained still, with a grave but calm expression as he watched. Kydd held his breath and braced himself.

Their bowsprit speared across the last few feet of Barfleur’s poop, snapping the ensign staff like a twig, instantly dowsing the huge flag. Her spanker boom shuddered and jerked in response to the twanging of rigging as it parted, and a loud scr-e-e-eak ended as quickly as it started.

Still swinging, the bulge of their bows narrowed the distance to her ornamented stern galleries, but Kydd saw that they had a chance – the gap was sufficient – and they were on their way past.

The elaborately carved and gilded windows of the First Rate shot by, it seemed at a bare arm’s length, Kydd catching sight through one window as they swept past of a shocked white face, without a wig.

Their momentum carried them on for several hundred yards before they brought to, and they sagged away downwind in ignominy. Now flat aback, the vessel began to gather sternway, and under the last helm order this led to the remaining sails filling once more on the original tack. In silence they went around again, wearing ship, to repeat the whole maneuver. This time they crept in, turning and coming up into the wind well separated from the nearest vessel. The anchor was let go when forward motion ceased, the gun salute banging out from forward to send clouds of acrid smoke smothering aft around Kydd.

The ship now fell to leeward until checked by the paid-out cable, leaving the vessel at anchor in her final position.

At supper liquor flowed around the mess tables and tongues loosened. “What a bloody shambles! Seen better handlin’ on the village pond.”

“Lost it again. We’ve got ourselves a right Jonah, mates.”

“Yair – he’s bin called away by Black Dick to account fer hisself ’n’ I doubts he’ll be a-pacin’ his own quarterdeck for much longer.”

“Meantimes, he’s goin’ to be killin’ orf sailors, lads, don’t forget that.”

Bowyer said nothing, looking thoughtfully over his pot. He leaned forward. “Did you ever stop to think, mates, that he’s only had the Royal Billy a few weeks – and not forgettin’ a fourth part of his crew are new pressed?”

It didn’t have any takers.

“I seen like dat in Lisbon. They take the capitao ashore – they shoot him!”

Kydd turned in surprise to the man at the end of the table. He was a sorrowful-looking, wall-eyed Iberian with a flaming red kerchief in place of the usual black.

“Savin’ your presence, Pinto, the dagos sometimes got the right slant on things.” Claggett’s pronouncement did not invite comment.

Bowyer gave a twisted smile. “That’s Pinto, Tom. A Portugee with some sorta quarrel with shoreside. ’N’ cox’n’s mate – that’s why you ain’t seen him before,” he added, as though it were an obvious explanation for his absence for meals at sea.

With a quaint flourish, Pinto flashed his teeth and bobbed his head. “Fernando da Mesouta Pinto, your service,” he said melodiously. “We ha’ not met?”

Unsure, Kydd nodded in return. “Thomas Kydd o’ Guildford,” he said, and seeing the polite inclination of the head added more loudly, “in England.”

“O’ course, Thomas. And you are pressed? What did you before?”

The conversations died away, eyes turning curiously to Kydd. He was aware that Renzi, in his accustomed position at the ship’s side opposite Claggett, had his dark eyes on him as well, but he refused to give the satisfaction of noticing.

“Perruquier!” he said defiantly, and took a strong pull at the grog. The hubbub at the other tables flurried and ebbed, but when he set down his tankard there was no comment.

“Fine thing fer a man in Guildford,” Claggett said mildly.

Howell gave a harsh laugh. Then he leaned across the table and mock-toasted the bow-backed man next to Kydd. “About as fine a thing as bein’ a gennelman’s flunkey aboard a king’s ship, eh, you – Buddles?”

The man made no reply. His eyes dropped as he shied away from the confrontation, his face turning toward Kydd.

Kydd was shocked at the extremity of misery he saw.

“What’s this – nothin’ to say? Yer tongue lyin’ to under a storm jib, then?” Howell leaned back and half turned to his neighbor.

“Nah – he’s missin’ his woman! He’s quean-struck on the old biddy – I saw them together in the tavern.”

“Leave him, companheiro.” The voice sliced through the talk quietly.

“What’s he to you, Pinto?” Howell said loudly, and glared at him. “That looby a friend of yourn?”

In a movement of snake-like quickness Pinto thrust over and seized Howell’s kerchief. He yanked the man toward him – and toward a glint of steel that had simultaneously appeared at Howell’s throat. “You a pig,” Pinto said, in a low and perfectly even voice.

Howell’s hands fell away slowly, far too late to intervene. He was careful not to move. “You – you’re mad, you dago bastard!”

Pinto held him with his brown, liquid eyes, then slowly released him, withdrawing the knife at the last moment. From first to last there had been no expression of emotion. Pinto resumed his place opposite Kydd and, unexpectedly, smiled at him. At a loss, Kydd smiled back, finding his gaze sliding along to Renzi, who sat perfectly still and as watchful as a cat.

Claggett cleared his throat and addressed the now silent table. “You’re caught fightin’, Pinto, yer’ll get your back flayed at the gratings. And you, Howell, you know damn well that Buddles ain’t no sailor, and he’s got a family ’n’ bantlin’s an’ all. They could be on the parish now, fer all he knows.”

A smothered sob escaped Buddles.

“Come on, Jonas, leave him be,” Whaley begged. “We’ve got Portsmouth Point under our lee, ’n’ I’m hot for a cruise there tonight – let’s see if your Betty still remembers yer.”

Howell glowered.

“Where’ll you be headin’ for, Ned?” Whaley asked Doud, whose countenance had brightened considerably at the direction the talk was taking.

Kydd bit his lip. The thought of returning to land and walking in a street, any street, seeing men in breeches, women in dresses and laughing children, stabbed with poignant appeal. He downed the last of his grog. “What about you, Joe?” he asked Bowyer.

A slow, shy smile spread across his face. “Well, Tom, you see, I’ve an understandin’ with a lady, name of Poll. We goes back awhile.” His face softened. “We gets leave to step off, she’ll be a-waitin’ for me at Sally Port, ’n’ if not, then we’ll get ‘wives aboard’ all the while we’re at moorin’s. ’S only human.” The kindly gray eyes rested on Kydd. “She’ll know some young lass as would welcome an arrangement with ye, Tom, don’t you worry. It’s the right way fer a sailor.”

“All hands! The hands ahoy! All hands on deck – lay aft!” The boatswain’s mates echoed each other along the gundeck.

“Well, mates, we says our farewells to Johnny Hawbuck, I believe.” Bowyer seemed relieved at the swift return of the Captain and therefore early resolution of the situation.

Howell stirred. “Aye, but that means it’s going to be Mantrap instead – it’ll be a hell ship.”

Claggett broke through the murmuring: “Maybe, but don’t count on it. Black Dick’ll have his cronies he’ll want to satisfy, ’n’ who knows? We could get a real tartar like Bligh!”

“Could be – but at least Bligh was a reg’lar built sailorman. Damn near four thousan’ miles in that longboat ’n’ never lost a man.”

Whaley punched Doud playfully. “Yeah – and at least now we’ll know if it’ll be the larbowlines first ashore.”

It was the first time that Kydd had seen both watches of the ship’s company mustered together on deck, nearly eight hundred men. Bowyer had been right – the figure of the Captain stood clear above them at the forward nettings of the poop deck, waiting as the men congregated below. His officers stood behind, rigid and ill at ease.