Struck dumb by the assumption of his godliness, he noticed Beatrice beaming across at him. 'Please do, Mr Kydd,' she said, meeting his eyes for the first time.
'Splendid!' said Caird. 'We shall call for you - and your servant, of course — at six on Sunday.'
When he returned to his little house, the lower part showed the light of candles: the occupant was at home. He started to climb the steps to his room, but a throaty hail stopped him. 'Avast there, cock! Come 'n' show yerself!' It was the chief caulker, his beefy frame seeming to fill the room. He was slumped in a chair holding a bottle. A black woman flitted about with a bowl.
'Has th' mullygrubs,' he said, burping. 'What's yer name, mate?'
'Thomas Kydd, Master o' the King's Negroes.'
'Savin' y’r presence, yez a young one fer a master. How'd yer come by it?'
'I had th' rate o' petty officer in
'A cryin' shame,' rumbled the man.
'—I was taken up b' Mr Caird,' he finished.
'Are ye a goddammed blue-light sailor, then?' demanded the chief caulker.
'I never take th' Lord's Name in vain, brother,' Kydd said, holding his hands in a prayerful attitude and hoping that his humble tone passed muster.
'B' gob, I never said - God rest ye, mate, an' all that!'
Kydd smiled beatifically, and made his exit, pleased at his escape from future bibulous demands. Then he remembered his mother's firm and steely Methodism, the hours of boredom in church — and winced.
Sunday morning saw them both in best attire—Luke with hair slicked back and shirt painfully buttoned up, Kydd in his best step-ashore rig, feeling utterly out of place. They waited outside the master shipwright's house. Broad, square, imposing, built of stone, the house reflected the importance of its chief inhabitant.
The Misses Caird emerged into the early sunlight, closely followed by Caird, forbidding in black — entirely black, from old-fashioned three-comer hat to severe black breeches and stockings, the whole relieved only by a plain white cravat.
Kydd doffed his hat to the ladies, returned by the unsmiling Caird. Luke's hesitant touching of his forelock was ignored. A dray rumbled grittily round the corner, its load of what appeared to be furniture covered with an old sail. The grey-haired old woman at the reins bobbed her head in glee at the sight of Caird. 'Hallelujah! Glory be, oh, yest, Lord!'
'Amen to that, Hepzibah,' Caird said, in a strong voice. 'We have today, joining with us in joyful prayer,
Master Thomas Kydd and his servant.' Hepzibah beamed at Kydd.
'Then shall we proceed. This day we pass by the plantation of Mr Blackstone, beyond Falmouth town.' Caird handed up the ladies to the single front seat and climbed up, himself taking the reins. 'I would wish we had more commodious transport, Thomas. You will have to shift for yourself in the back, I fear.'
Kydd pulled Luke in after him and the dray moved off. As they clopped serenely through the dockyard Kydd was glad of the early start — there was nobody abroad to see him. He looked at the swaying backs of the Cairds and wondered at the wild contrasts in his life since he had taken to sailoring.
They wound out of the dockyard and were almost immediately in scrub and rocks over the higher ground behind. The dray ground along, Hepzibah breaking into joyful hymns that, of course, it would be unseemly to join. Scattered houses merged into a township, but the houses were mean — wattle and daub, small and mud-dusty. 'Falmouth,' said Caird, 'a negro village.' Past the town, the sea sparkling to their left, they wound up into cane-field country. The heat was noticeably stronger. As they topped the rise, the sound of singing floated to them on the hot breeze. Finally they stopped at a crossroads in the shade of a wild tamarind tree of considerable size and age, where people of every variety, free and slave, had gathered.
'Please to assist me, Thomas, in rigging the assembly,' Caird asked Kydd courteously.
Kydd complied, lifting down chairs and an ingenious portable pulpit, under the shy
