The Privateer's Revenge

head throbbed—but a gage of bowse with the splicings would soon set him to rights. Kydd pushed open the door and a sickly sweet smell of liquored sawdust and warm humanity hit him. A few turned, then resumed their conversations.

Across the room a serving maid looked at him speculatively and made her way through the tables. 'A hard time, sailor?' she said sympathetically. It was not uncommon after a rough voyage and the hard carousing that followed for a sailor to sell his clothes. Kydd's heart warmed to her and he gave a shy smile. 'Ye're welcome here, shipmate,' she continued. 'An' what c'n I find f'r you as will chase away y'r mem'ries, m' dear?'

Kydd's face clouded. 'Thank 'ee, Miss—but there isn't a med'cine made as will settle that. Er, I have m' hopes of a long voyage t' come, though,' he concluded weakly. His expression eased. 'But a muzzler o' y'r right true sort is wha' I'd take kindly.'

'Look, come over an' sit wi' these gennelmen,' she said and waved a pot towards a cosy group about a table in the corner. 'They's in from the Indies, eleven weeks 'cross the Western Ocean wi' a sprung foremast an' aught t' eat but belaying-pin soup an' handspike hash.'

The beer was dark, honest and spread the glow of inebriation once more. His new friends had glanced at him curiously just once and then, as was the way of the sea, had accepted him for what he was. 'Yez must've had a time of it, Tom, m' skiddy cock. Which hooker?' one asked.

'Save y'r kindness, mates, an' it's something I—I don't wan' t' talk of,' Kydd said gruffly, and took refuge in his tankard.

'Right b' us, ain't it?' the oldest in the group said hastily to the others and called for another pint. 'An' if ye're not flush in the fob . . .' he muttered kindly.

'Ah, 'everybody's mess an' no one's watch'?' Kydd snorted. 'No, cuffin, I has m' cobbs as will pay m' way.'

He fumbled with his shoe while the others looked away politely. He found the coins—in his careless haste he had slipped in three half-guineas and a florin, a princely sum for a seaman. Embarrassed, he mumbled something and ordered a drink for each man.

They had not questioned Kydd's reticence—many went to sea for a good enough reason—but they told him willingly of their own hard passage. Seeing Kydd relax a little, they asked what he had in mind for the future and, head spinning, he tried to explain his great need for far voyaging. They nodded: it was the ambition of most seamen when reaching port to spend all their hard-won pay in one glorious spree and, penniless, sign on for another hard voyage.

'Well, matey, we's not f'r south o' the Line, but y' might want t' think about Barbadoes Packet. Sailin' soon f'r Batavia in hardwares. Her mate'll be about lookin' f'r hands tonight, I shouldn't wonder.'

Kydd tried blearily to take it in.

'Th' mate?' said another, with feeling. 'Ye're forgettin' it's Hellyer, a right bucko as ever I seen! You ship out in that there—'

A splintering crash and female screams slammed into Kydd's consciousness followed by urgent shouts and a strident bellow from the door. Reeling, he tried to make sense of it as his companions shot to their feet and yelled at him, 'The press! Skin out while y' can, Tom—jowla, jowla, matey!' They disappeared hurriedly into the scrimmage and Kydd tried clumsily to follow but fell headlong. Before he could rise he felt knees in his back, his thumbs secured with rope-yarns, and he was yanked to his feet.

'Got a rough knot 'ere, sir,' the press gang seaman called, his hand firmly on the scruff of Kydd's neck as he tried to writhe free.

A young lieutenant was approaching and Kydd hung his head in stupefied dejection, waiting for recognition. 'Ah, yes. Looks fit enough. Hey, you—which ship? What rate o' seaman?'

Kydd struggled with his befuddled mind. 'Er, there's a mistake,' he mumbled.

'That's 'sir' t' you, cully,' the seaman said, with a sharp cuff to Kydd's head.

'Um, sir, y' can't take me, I'm . . . er, that is t' say, I'm . . .' He trailed off weakly.

'And, pray, what are you, then? A gentleman?' the officer said sarcastically, eyeing Kydd's appearance. 'Or possibly the captain of your ship as can't be spared.'

The seaman tittered.

Kydd said nothing, overcome with mortification. The lieutenant changed his tone. 'Now there's nothing to be ashamed of. Should you show willing, in the King's service, we can make a man of you. Proud to serve! Who knows, there's been those who've been rated full petty officer in just a few years.'

Numb, Kydd was led off with the others by the Impress Service, the regular organisation for supplying the fleet with men. He knew they were going to the receiving ship, an old, no longer fit-for-service hulk moored well out.

There, they were herded into the darkness of the hold, and the gratings slid into place with hopeless finality. Two dim lanthorns revealed dirty straw and pitiful bodies, a pail of water in the corner. In the morning he would be cleaned up to go before the regulating captain who, he recalled, was Byam, honourably wounded at the Nile. Without question he would be recognised.

The drink-haze fled, leaving him in full knowledge of the horror of his situation. He would be laughed out of the Navy. Even the merchant sailors would chortle with glee at the story of his downfall. To the disgrace of his family, he would be pointed out wherever he went as the captain who had been pressed by his own press gang.

The long night passed in self-condemnation, recrimination and torturing images of his shocked friends and relations as they heard the news. How could he bear the shame? What excuse could he offer? He lay sleepless on the rank straw, dreading the day to come.

At first light the guards took up position at the grating. Kydd heard footsteps approaching and saw figures peering down. He shrank away. There were muffled voices, then a guard lifted away the grating and swung over a lanthorn. 'Hey! Yair, you wi' the grego!'

Kydd looked up miserably.

'Yes, that's him, the villain,' came a cultured voice. Another loomed next to him.