denied.
The seamen surrounded the party, and began jostling, thumping with the heel of their cutlasses, hoarse cries urging the soldiers to run away. One toppled forward under a blow. The army officer swung round and ordered shrilly, 'Load with ball!' At the cry, the crowd began to scatter in disorder. The sailors spread out and hefted their weapons. If the soldiers opened fire they would be instantly set upon. But Kydd knew that the soldiers would do their duty without question. The end was therefore inevitable, and the shouts and cries died away into a breathless silence as all waited for the final spark.
Distantly, the sound of the measured tramp of men-at-arms sounded. It swelled, and a column of marines appeared. At its head was Farrell, in full uniform. The men came to a halt and Farrell strode purposefully to the centre. 'Where is Lieutenant Powell?' he demanded.
The sailors fell back, unsure.
'If by that you mean your superior officer, I am here,' came a strong, resonant voice at the head of the brow. A short but well-built man in loose shirt and breeches came down. His face was robust but lined, the marks of hard drinking on him.
As the two men met, the others fell back.
'You have your orders, sir, why do you not comply?' Farrell snapped.
'Because — because you know well enough, damn you, Charles!'
Farrell's tone hardened. 'You are under arrest—'
'Poppycock! You know as well as the whole world that you are junior on the lieutenants' list to me, and therefore I am your superior officer.' Powell squared away. 'And now you do take my orders or ...'
Kydd was appalled. By the immutable rule of the navy, the lieutenant whose date of commission was even a day earlier was automatically the senior officer. It even applied to admirals, and Powell's claim appeared to be legitimate.
Farrell's eyes flicked to the mass of silent seamen: Powell caught the look and snarled, 'I have only to say the word, and these good men will sweep away your—'
'You'd shed good blood in such a cause?' Farrell exclaimed in astonishment, then stiffened. 'I am your superior officer because I hold the King's commission as commander of a King's ship. You are acting commander only. Now, are you prepared to obey orders?'
Powell folded his arms. 'No. You are in contempt of naval law, sir.'
Kydd tensed. All it needed was for Powell to shout an order and the stones would be drenched in blood. Farrell did not pause. 'Your pistol, sir,' he asked of the army officer, never taking his eyes from Powell. The captain fumbled at his slung leather pouch and handed over the heavy weapon. Farrell took the pistol and cocked it, aiming at the ground.
'Do you now comply with my orders, sir?' he asked, in an icy monotone.
'If you seek to affright me, sir, you have failed.'
The pistol came up, the dark cavity of the muzzle directly on Powell's chest. 'For the final time, sir. Lieutenant Powell, do you accept my authority and obey my orders — in peril of your life?'
Both men stood rigid.
'You wouldn't fire, Charles! That would be—' 'Sir?' demanded Farrell in a steely hiss. 'Since you ask. No!'
The pistol blasted out, the ball taking Powell squarely in the chest, a sudden crash of sound in the awful stillness. It filled the air with a hanging cloud of gunsmoke, and flung Powell back in a limp huddle. Nobody moved, all held motionless by the horror of the moment.
Farrell lowered the pistol. He turned to the army captain. 'Sir, I surrender myself to you as senior officer and consider myself under open arrest.'
The soldier's hands were shaking as he tried to make deprecating gestures.
