docks, one holding a small frigate with cruel wounds of war, and then to the ordnance building with its gun-wharf adjacent. Finally there was the extensive mast pond and, out from it, half a dozen sizeable hulks close to each other.
The gates of the dockyard were manned by sentries, but they merely looked at him with a bored expression. A master's mate would never be asked for a liberty ticket. 'D' ye know where I c'n find Queen Street?' he asked.
One man scratched his jaw. 'Doan think I know that 'un,' he said, after a pause. 'This 'ere is Blue Town, yer knows,' he said, gesturing to the mean streets and ramshackle dwellings that crowded close after the drab burial ground. 'Ye c'n get anythin' yer wants there,' he said, eyeing Kydd curiously.
Kydd started off down the rutted street, which passed along the boundary of the garrison. A crazy web of litde alleys intersected it and a stench of sewerage and decay was on the air. Blue Town was not the kind of area to be graced with street signs. The barefooted urchins were no help, and his shoes spattered mud over his coat. As the settlement thinned into marshland Kydd saw the road wind away across the marshes into a scatter of far-off buildings he assumed was Sheerness town.
It was time to return; he had tried. He trudged back, irritated. At the gate, the sentry stopped him. 'Oi remember, naow. What yer wants is Queen Street on th' Breakers.'
The other sentry tut-tutted wisely. 'Shoulda known.' At Kydd's look he added hastily, 'That's all them 'ulks a-floatin' out there - proper town they has on 'em, streets an' all.'
There were prison hulks in Portsmouth for prisoners-of-war and the assembling of convicts for the miserable voyage to Botany Bay, but Kydd had never heard of ships being used as formal accommodation. On looking closer he was impressed: built over with roofs, chimneys everywhere and commodious bridges between them, in the evening light they were a curious species of goblin rookeries, neat and well cared-for.
He mounted the first bridge out to a two-decker: the whole upper-deck was built over, all guns had been removed and a row of 'houses' lined the sides of the 'street'. Each house had tubs of plants, white-painted pebbles, picked out window-frames, and in front of him was a scarlet and green street sign: 'George Street'. A cheery soul told him that Queen Street was in the next vessel, and Kydd passed across, daring a peep into one window where places were being laid for an evening meal in a room as snug as any to be seen on dry land.
The message gave no street number, but there were painted name-boards on each door. Kydd found one marked 'Malkin' and knocked.
The door squeaked open and a young woman appeared, in a pinafore and mob cap. 'Oh!' she said faintly, at Kydd's uniform.
Her blue eyes had a softness that was most fetching. 'Er, Thomas Kydd, master's mate o' Achilles' he said gendy. 'An' you must be Miss Kitty Malkin?'
Her hand flew to her mouth. 'Yes, I am, sir,' she said. 'It's about Edward!' she blurted. 'He's in trouble, isn't he, an' can't get ashore?' The eyes looked at Kydd appealingly. 'It's been a long time, sir, to be away . . .'
'C'n I speak to y'r father, if y' please?' Something about his manner alarmed her. 'Whatever has t' be said to m' father can be said to me, sir.' Kydd hesitated.
'Then please t' step inside, sir.' Kitty opened the door wide to allow Kydd to enter. It was a tiny but neat and pleasing front room, rugs on the floor, sideboard displaying treasured china and some bold portraits on the wall; Kydd thought he could recognise Ned Malkin in one set about with crossed flags and mermaids. A polished table was half set for an evening meal — there was only one place.
'Pray be seated, sir,' she said, her eyes never leaving his. The two cosy chairs were close to each other and Kydd sat uncomfortably.
'It's kind in you to come visit,' she said. Her hands were in her lap, decorous and under control.
'Ned - a taut hand,' he began.
'Is he in y'r watch, sir?' she asked. It was odd to hear a woman familiar with sea terms.
'No, but I've seen him in the tops in a blow, right good seaman .. .' Kydd tailed off.
She picked up on his hesitation. Her face went tight. 'Somethin's happened to Ned, hasn't it?' She sat bolt upright, her hands twisting. 'I c'n see it in your face, Mr Kydd.'
Kydd mumbled something, but she cut it short. 'Y' must tell me — please.'
