After a weary and impatient journey he was finally in Rochester. Firmly locking the door to his room, he tried on his gear. It would do, but much hung on its effectiveness.
Wig powder - he loathed it for the inevitable dusty droppings on his high coat collar, but it was essential for appearances. His face was too healthy, tanned and weather-touched; ladies' face powder would subdue it to an indoor appearance. There was nothing more he could do that night so he took a modest supper and went to bed.
He couldn't sleep. It was a perilous undertaking, and Stanhope had all but declared that he would be on his own. If he failed — if he was discovered, then . ..
Too hot in the strange bed, he threw off a blanket. In theory it could just work, but it would mean personal peril, patience and, at the right time, Kydd doing exacdy — to the letter - what was asked of him.
At the Nore the weather had not improved. Rainy, gusty, and raw off the North Sea, it was Sheerness at its bleakest.
As usual, Kydd's first morning task was to assemble the day's victualling requisitions. He relied on the other ships to render their lists of requirements: sides of beef, lemon juice, small beer in the cask, dried pease and, this being harbour routine, bread. When the requirements had all been consolidated, he would send these ashore.
That duty done, he went to see Parker, who was finishing a letter. 'Good day, Tom, we have to call an assembly of the Parliament, you'll agree. Then it's my intent to tour the fleet and speak to the men. I'll wait until we've the stores under hatches, though.'
It would be a critical meeting. If their united front broke under the strain of competing loyalties it would be a merciless end for them all — but if they held staunch there was still a chance.
On deck they waited for the boats to thrash out to them. In these racing seas they would be making heavy weather of it, but Kydd had told the other ships to ensure they were not short of provisions for just this eventuality — he knew the dockyard hoys would put discretion before the bellies of sailors when it came to filthy weather.
The wind whipped at Kydd's oilskins, sending a shiver down his backbone. How was it that Sheerness weather had a quality that made the town seem the rawest, most desolate spot in the kingdom?
'I spy our cutter,' Parker said, in some puzzlement, pointing to where a boat with the distinctive old-fashioned lug mizzen projected over the transom made its laboursome way towards them. The crews were there to supervise the loading of the hoys, and for some reason were returning early.
The petty officer in charge came up the side quickly.
'We bin flammed, Mr Parker. The shonky bastards, they've stopped vittlin'.'
'What - gave ye no stores? None at all?' Kydd couldn't understand it.
'None!'
Parker looked at Kydd. 'I fear, Tom, you and I must get ashore and see what's afoot. Fetch your papers.'
The victualling storekeeper was not helpful: it was a matter of authority, and for that they had to see a clerk of the cheque. They trudged across the dockyard, aware of the changed atmosphere. No longer the cheerful processions and hands waved in comradeship. Now it was in a sullen, hostile mood.
'You see?' The clerk's finger stabbed at the requisition form. 'The signature. We have no authority to issue against this.' It was Parker's signature.
'And why not? You have before.'
'You needs an orficer ter clap 'is scratch to these.'
'An' since when did we have t' do this?' Kydd snarled.
'Steady, Tom,' Parker muttered.
'This's not th' business of a mutineer,' the clerk said contemptuously.
'You — you fawney
