He stepped up to the lectern. ‘Off caps!’ Jolley roared.
Then, when all was quiet, Kydd began: ‘Master-at-arms?’
‘Two bells this afternoon, Patrick Doyle did strike me, ’is lawful superior, contrary to—’
‘Thank you, Mr Jolley. Doyle, is this true?’ An admission would stop Kydd’s plan in its track but, fortunately, the man stood doggedly mute.
‘Come, sir, this is no time for silence. Master-at-arms, tell me what happened – in detail, if you please.’
‘Well, sir, on bein’ h’ordered to apprehend Doyle, I proceeded down t’ the mess deck, where I saw the prisoner with his mates, like. When I—’
‘Who were these mates, then, Mr Jolley?’ Kydd said mildly.
‘Oh, er, there was Smythe . . . an’ McVitty and, er, others.’
‘Carry on.’
‘And then there was words, like. I goes t’ seize Doyle when he tips me a souser on the chops, so I—’
‘So Smythe and McVitty are your witnesses. Where were they standing, pray?’
‘Standing? Why, I reckons in front o’ the crowd somewheres.’
‘Not good enough, Mr Jolley. Was Smythe to larb’d of the others, at the back – the front? Where was McVitty then?’
‘Um, t’ starb’d, I reckons, Smythe near ’im.’
‘Call Smythe.’ When the sailor arrived, nervously kneading his shapeless cap, Kydd asked him, with all the gravity he could muster, ‘Now this is of vital importance – a man’s life hangs on your answer. Where were you standing when – when this incident took place? Think now!’
‘Abaft th’ fore-mast, sir.’
‘Upon which side?
‘Er . . .’
‘We’ll have your oath on it – which?’
‘I c-can’t rightly recall.’
‘Hmm. Call McVitty.’ A slightly built man with darting eyes stood before him. ‘Now, exactly where was Smythe during this time? Be very careful with your answer, sir!’
‘I – I—’
‘Well?’
‘Couldn’t be sure, sir . . .’ The man tailed off.
‘Can’t be sure?’ Kydd said, in exaggerated astonishment. ‘This is a fine thing to set before a court-martial.’ He found what he was looking for in the front row: a grey-haired seaman with steady eyes and a slight smile, as though he knew where Kydd was headed. ‘You, sir! Step forward. Were you on the mess-decks forrard when the master-at-arms was struck?’
‘I was, Mr Kydd,’ the man said, in a firm voice.
‘There, Mr Jolley. As your witnesses are unreliable I have found my own.’
‘Thank ’ee, sir,’ the master-at-arms said uncomfortably.
‘Well, tell me, who was it that struck the master-at-arms?’
‘I didn’t rightly see, sir.’ The expected answer came back instantly.
Kydd allowed disappointment to show, then called over another – with the same result. ‘Tut, tut. This is very unsatisfactory.’ He drew himself up and hailed the men. ‘Any man who saw who struck the master-at-arms to come forward!’
A ripple of murmuring spread out – but, extraordinarily, it seemed there was not one who had happened to be looking in that particular direction when the blow was struck.
‘Then I rather fear we cannot proceed in this, Mr Jolley.’
‘Sir? You can’t – sir, it’s Doyle, an’ that’s a—’
‘The court-martial would think the L’Aurores a sad parcel o’ loobies were we to present evidence like this. You’re not thinking to see the ship shamed so publicly, surely, Mr Jolley?’
‘It was Doyle! I’d stake m’ life on’t!’
‘Not sufficient evidence presented. Case dismissed, Mr Howlett,’ Kydd pronounced crisply.
The first lieutenant stood as though in doubt of his hearing. ‘Why, sir – it’s – we should question ’em individually, lay out the consequences, get the Articles o’ War and—’
‘No. Besides, I’m not finished yet.’ He hid a smile at Howlett’s agitation – this was only the opening act in what he had decided. ‘I’m going to do something about our lamentable situation.’
Instead of concluding the proceedings and returning to his cabin, he waited for the restlessness in the men to settle into baffled curiosity, then theatrically addressed the stunned Doyle. ‘I’d be beholden to you for your advice, sir, as pertaining to the situation in this frigate.’
Behind him, Kydd heard the gasps of his officers. The captain – asking a fore-mast hand for his views?
