prepared to risk his very life for the sake of the men, his shipmates. And, above all, had the intelligence and resolve to do something about it. 'And if th' French sail?'
'Ah, you see, they won't. At Spithead it was voted that, no matter what, if the French moved against England, then the fleet will instantly return to duty and sail against the enemy. They know this, so at this moment they lie in their harbours, unmoved.'
Kydd took a deep breath. 'Then ye're still loyal - t' King 'n' country, I mean.'
'We are, Tom,' Parker said seriously. 'What could be more loyal than ridding His Majesty of such base villains - these scum?'
He rose unexpectedly and crossed to a cabinet. 'I want you to drink a toast with me, Tom.' He busied himself pouring. 'To success for our brave tars — standing against the whole world!'
Kydd took the glass suspiciously. 'Don't worry, this is not the admiral's, it's common grog only,' Parker said, with a smile.
'Aye. Well, here's t' our brave Jack Tars!' Kydd drank heartily.
Parker moved to a chair to one side. 'Tom. Let me be straight with you,' he began. 'Your common foremast jack is not best placed to see the whole of matters. He is brave and honest, but without guile. His nature makes him the prey of others, he has not the penetration to see he is being practised upon. What I am saying is that there are many who do not see the urgency, the dire necessity of our actions at this time, and hesitate. This is a folly, and puts at great hazard all those who have seen their duty to their shipmates and acted.'
He refilled Kydd's glass. 'We need men to declare their devotion to their shipmates, to end their hesitation, men that are fine and strong, men whom others look upon to set them a course to steer. Tom, we need you to stand with us. To give us your—'
'No!' Kydd slammed down his glass, suddenly icy cold. 'Parker, I believe in what ye're doing, but this, is not th' way — it can't be!' He turned to go, flinging open the door.
'Kydd!' called Parker from behind him. 'Just think on this. If you really care about your men, do something, but otherwise go away — and then try to live with yourself.'
Kydd left, Parker's words echoing in his ears, again confronting the dank, crowded decks, the misery in the faces of the men, the air of hopelessness and despair.
Only one thing kept hammering at his senses: he could no longer walk away.
'You've been aboard Sandwich? said Cockburn flatly. 'You're not such a fool, Tom, that you don't know the penalty for treasonous association, consorting with mutineers. Just for the sake of curiosity, you'd let it be seen . . .' Something in Kydd's face made Cockburn tail off.
'I know what I did.'
Kydd left the gunroom and moodily made the upper deck. His mind was in a spin of indecision as he paced along slowly. Abreast the mainmast he stopped. A young sailor was working by the side of the immense complexity of ropes belayed to their pins that girdled the mast. Spread out on a canvas in front of him were blocks and yarns, fid and knife.
Seeing Kydd stop he scrambled to his feet. 'Oh, Mr Kydd, I'm ter strap th' spanker sheet block 'ere fer the cap'n o' the mizzentop.'
'Carry on, younker. But what's this I see? You mean t' work a common short splice, an' it's t' be seen b' the quarterdeck?' Kydd hid a grin at the lad's worried look. 'Well, sure enough, we usually use a short splice, an' for our sheet block we turn the tail to a selvagee — but this is upon the quarterdeck, an' Achilles is a crack man-o'-war. No, lad, we doesn't use an ugly short splice. Instead we graft the rope, make it fine 'n' smooth around the block, then other ships go green 'cos we've got such a prime crew who know their deep-water seamanship.'
'But, Mr Kydd, please, I don't know yer grafting.'
'It's easy enough — look, I'll show ye.' Kydd picked up the strap and shook the strands free, then intertwined and brought them together, very tightly. 'Now work a stopper each side, if y' please.' The lad eagerly complied. 'Now we c'n open out Y strands, and make some knittles — just like as if y' was doin' some pointin'.' Kydd's strong fingers plying the knife made short work of producing a splay of fine lines above and below the join. His coat constricted his movements so he took it off and threw it over the bitts. 'An' now y'r ready to graft. Lay half y' knittles on the upper part .. .'
