He hunched in his oilskins as the rain drummed, watching a bedraggled and sullen group of sailors bring down a topmast from aloft. Normally a seamanlike evolution, now it was an awkward and sloppy display from a fuddled crew. The refined tones of the first lieutenant through his speaking trumpet crackled with irritability, but a hastily applied hitch on rain-slick timber might slip — then the spar would spear down and there would be death in the morning.
After a false start, the fore topmast lay safely on deck, and Kydd was able to dismiss the wet men. He stayed on the deserted fore-deck; although the women had been sent ashore the mess-decks were just as noisy and he needed solitude for a while, thinking of what had passed.
There was no question: Kitty understood - they both did — that what had happened was spontaneous, impetuous, even, and nothing could be implied in the situation.
His eyes focused on a boat approaching in the drizzle. Most bumboats were huddled into the ship's side under their tarpaulins, but this one was a naval longboat, four oars and a couple of seaman passengers aft. Probably more ship-visiting, but Kydd was uneasy: these were not jovial shipmates but a sober, purposeful crew.
They came aboard, quietly removing their hats and reporting to the officer-of-the-watch before moving quickly below. That this was shortly before the noon dinner — and issue of grog — was probably not of consequence, but with the main battle fleet in open mutiny in Spithead, nothing was above suspicion.
As usual, at the meal, he made it his duty to take a turn round the mess-tables, available, but listening, alert for trouble. The fife had played 'Nancy Dawson' with its cheery tumpity-tump on a drum for the issue of grog, the sailors had welcomed the arrival of rum-darkened mess kids, and the high-point of the day began.
But there was something amiss — a jarring note; Kydd couldn't sense what it was. He saw Farnall, the educated quota man, whom he sensed would always be on the fringes of trouble. Kydd walked over to his table - the same wary silence, the faces following him. He passed by, his easy 'What cheer?' to Lofty Webb only brought a frightened swivelling of eyes.
He reached the end of the mess-deck. Out of the corner of his eye Kydd saw movement, and turned. Farnall's table sat motionless, looking at him. A piece of paper slowly fluttered to the deck. No one moved.
Talk died at nearby tables. He picked up the paper. It was badly printed and well creased, but it began boldly: 'Brother Tars! Who hath given all for the cause of yr countrys freedom! Now is the time ...' Kydd's eyes lifted slowly, a red flush building. 'Whose is this?' he said thickly. The mutinous tract must have been brought aboard from someone in touch with the Spithead mutineers.
Not a man stirred. They met his eyes steadily, neither flinching nor wavering, yet possession of a seditious document was sufficient evidence of treasonable intent whatever the circumstance. Then it dawned upon him: they had wanted him to read it. Cold anger replaced his uncertainty. 'Y' heard y'r captain — take notice o' this jabberknowl an' ye'll all be dancin' at the yardarm afore y' knows it.' In the sea service, mutiny was the one unforgivable crime, a swift court-martial and death a sure end for the offender. To see shipmates stark and still at the end of a rope for a moment's foolishness would be heartbreaking.
He glared at them, and met nothing but a stony gaze. His duty was plain and explicit: he should seize the culprit and haul him aft for just punishment. But which one was it? He hesitated. He went to rip up the paper but something stopped him and he stuffed it lamely into his waistcoat.
'Ye're all under m' eye fr'm this hour. That's you, Nunky, an' Lofty — you too, Farnall, 'n' don't think t' practise y'r sea-lawyer ways aboard Achilles. We're true man-o'-war's men in this barky.' He had the satisfaction of seeing Jewell's eyes flicker and a quick look of appeal from Webb to Farnall.
Kydd stalked away in the tense silence, hearing the low, urgent rumble of talk behind him. His mind cooled: it was clear that agents of the Spithead mutineers were at work aboard Achilles. He must bring this to the quarterdeck; but curiosity made him head first for the master's sea cabin, which he knew was empty as Eastman was ashore. Guiltily, he drew out the paper to read.
He scanned quickly past the wordy patriotic protestations, snorting at the references to victims of tyranny and oppression and laws of humanity. It went on to claim the support of Charles Fox — Kydd's father had a sympathy for the radical, he remembered, but Kydd had minimal interest in politics: that was a task for the gentlemen of the land, not him.
He read further — pampered knaves in power at Westminster, His Majesty ill advised by them ... The substance of what the mutiny was said to be about was much the same as he had read in The Times. But what had his eyes returning time and again was one ringing sentence: 'In all humanity is it a wrong to ask for bread and ah honest wage, that it is a crime that must be paid for at the yardarm?'
