'Tom, yer knows what's in th' wind, don' need me ter tell yez.'
Kydd didn't speak for a space, then he said, 'I c'n guess. There's those who're stirrin' up mischief f'r their own reasons, an' a lot o' good men are goin' to the yardarm 'cos of them.'
Boddy let the rope drop. 'Farnall, he admires on Wilkes - yer dad probably told yer, 'Wilkes 'n' Liberty!' an' all that.'
'I don't hold wi' politics at sea,' Kydd said firmly. 'An' don't I recollect Wilkes is agin the Frenchy revolution?'
'Aye, that may be so,' Boddy said uncomfortably, 'but Farnall, he's askin' some questions I'm vexed ter answer.'
'Will, ye shouldn't be tellin' me this,' Kydd muttered.
Boddy looked up earnestly. 'Like we sent in petitions 'n' letters an' that — how many, yer can't count — so th' Admiralty must know what it's like. They've got ter! So if nothin' happens, what does it mean?'
He paused, waiting for Kydd to respond. When he didn't, Boddy said, 'There's only one answer, Tom.' He took a deep breath. 'They don't care! We're away out of it at sea, why do they haveta care?'
'Will, you're telling me that ye're going t' trouble th' Lords o' the Admiralty on account of a piece o' reasty meat, Nipcheese gives y' short measure—'
'Tom, ye knows it's worse'n that. When I was a lad, first went ter sea, it were better'n now. So I asks ye, how much longer do we have ter take it — how long, mate?'
'Will, y're talkin' wry, I c'n see that—'
'Spithead, they're doin' the right thing as I sees it. No fightin', no disrespeck, just quiet-like, askin' their country ter play square with 'em, tryin'—'
'Hold y'r tongue!' Kydd said harshly.
Boddy stopped, but gazed at him steadily, and continued softly, 'Some says as it could be soon when a man has t' find it in himself ter stand tall f'r what's right. How's about you, Mr Kydd?'
Kydd felt his control slipping. Boddy knew that he had overstepped - but was it deliberate, an attempt to discover his sympathies, mark him for elimination in a general uprising, or was it a friend and shipmate trying to share his turmoil?
Kydd turned away. In what he had said Boddy was guilty of incitement to mutiny; if Kydd did not witness against him he was just as guilty. But he could not - and realised that a milestone had been passed.
He did not sleep well: as an eight-year-old he had been badly shaken when his mother had returned from a London convulsed by mob rioting, Lord Gordon's ill-advised protest lurching out of control. She had been in a state of near-panic at the breakdown of authority, the drunken rampages and casual violence. Her terror had planted a primordial fear in Kydd of the dissolution of order, a reflexive hatred of revolutionaries, and in the darkness he had woken from terrifying dreams of chaos and his shipmates turned to ravening devils.
Glad when morning came, he sat down to breakfast in the gunroom. The others ate in silence, the navy way, until Cockburn pushed back his plate and muttered, 'I have a feeling in m' bowels, Tom.'
'Oh?' Kydd answered cautiously. This was not like Cockburn at all.
'Last night there was no play with the shot-rolling. It was still, too quiet by half. Have you heard anything from your people?'
'I heard 'em talkin' but no thin' I c'n put my finger on,' he lied.
'All it needs is some hothead.' Cockburn stared morosely at the mess-table.
Kydd's dream still cast a spell and he was claustrophobic. 'Going topsides,' he said, but as he got to his feet, the gunroom servant passed a message across.
There was no mistaking the bold hand and original spelling, and a smile broke through. This had obviously been brought aboard by a returning libertyman.
