He wondered what to do next, when noiselessly a dark figure appeared in front of him. He sensed another behind. “What’s the word?” the first whispered urgently.
“Freedom or death,” Kydd said quickly.
The figures relaxed, signaling him to clamber up.
Inside there was ample room for the dozen or so men it contained. Kydd’s nose wrinkled at the acrid seaweed and mud smell. A single shaded purser’s dip was the only illumination.
“Meeting comes to order,” Stallard whispered. He was the one with the light.
The others leaned forward over it to hear. With a start Kydd recognized one. It was Bull Lynch, from his own gun crew. Lynch stared back.
“First thing, meet Brother Kydd, who’s joining us.”
Heads nodded cautiously. Kydd’s dull anger now turned to apprehension. It was untrue that he was joining, but now he would be considered part of anything that was decided.
“Now, brothers, to business.” Stallard had the easy authority of the rabble-rouser. “We have to face it, friends, we ain’t had a chance to do anything much lately, it being so busy, like.” He glanced at each of them. “Until now! Brother Kydd is a townie, comes from my part o’ the country, and I trust him. Got a headpiece, has Tom, and the two of us are going to work on a plan o’ mine that’s going to shake the buggers up somethin’ cruel.” He paused. “Been workin’ on this plan for a long while, and even if I say it, it’s a good ’un. We gets shot o’ this life, and at the same time we gets set up with a purse full o’ guineas – every man jack of us!”
The men stirred restlessly, darting uncomfortable glances at each other.
Lynch looked scornful. “Tell us yer great plan, then,” he hissed.
Stallard looked resentfully at Lynch. “Brother Bull, I spent a lot o’ time at me plan, please be s’ good as to hear me out. What we needs is a plan what sees us safe from the law afterward, an’ sets us up at the same time so’s we don’t need to go beggin’. I have that plan, an’ it’s guaranteed.” He stared Lynch down and continued. “Now, listen to this. Hear the whole plan first afore yer makes comment, brothers.
“The night we makes our move – Johnny Hawbuck always comes up for a sniff o’ air on deck before he turns in, has a gab with the officer who’s got the deck. Gets very dark it does, that hour, so in one easy move we tips ’em both a thwack on the bonce with one o’ them belayin’ pins and it’s overside for ’ em both. Meanwhile, I gets to settle with Tyrell in his cabin; I got personal reasons to do this job. But then the beautiful bit-we beats t’ quarters, everyone thinks we’ve seen the French up close but instead all we does is seize the boardin’ weapons, as many as we want, all ready for us! This is how we, the h’oppressed slaves, can finally win our freedom. With eight hundred of us under arms we outnumber the bastards ten to one. No one can tell me we can’t win – and that’s why I needs you ’n’ Brother Kydd to help organize ’em all.”
There was dead silence.
“Now, you say, what next? Well, we has the ship. This here is a valuable property, is a ship-o’-the-line, and there’s nations what’ll pay bags o’ gold for a line-of-battle ship. Not the enemy! No, we don’t consider that, we’re patriots, we are. No – we sell to a nation that ain’t got one of its own, but is growin’ big enough to want one. The United States of Ameriky!”
There were indrawn breaths.
“What about th’ officers?” came a deep voice.
“Well, now, we gives ’em a fair trial, they has to answer for their conduct, that sorta thing. And then we tops ’em.”
There was a long silence.
“Well – what d’ye think?” Stallard said impatiently.
Kydd was lost in horror, but he could find no immediate glaring flaw that would show it for the madness it was. It seemed he was caught up in a nightmare sweeping him to disaster.
Lynch was the first to move. “Never heard such a lot of cock shit in all me life.”
His whisper shocked Stallard, who seemed to lose control. He grabbed Lynch by the shirt and choked out, “You fool! Here’s a chance for you to do somethin’, to make somethin’ of yourself, and you won’t fuckin’ do anything. You’re a sad dog, Bull, you’ll never – ”
Lynch stood up. “I’m gettin’ outa here, I’ve a gutful o’ your pratin’, Stallard.” He turned to go.
“No, you don’t, Lynch. Brothers, stop him!”
The others hung back, worried and uncertain. The bull-like figure of Lynch waited, then his lips curled. “Seems yer’ve lost it, Stallard.”
“You bastard! You yellow bastard!” Stallard breathed, and slid out his knife. Lynch’s eyes opened wide, then he brought out his own.
The men fell back – the light was placed on deck, its guttering luminance now unchecked, playing fitfully on the scene.
Stallard circled warily. He held the knife like a dagger, point down, but Lynch held his across his palm low down and with the point slightly upward, following the line of his thumb. He tracked Stallard’s movements without moving from where he stood.
It ended quickly. Stallard leaped forward, raising his knife for a sudden strike. Lynch picked up the signal and like a snake his arm extended. The blade gleamed and buried itself in Stallard’s ribs.
With an astonished gasp, Stallard fell on his knees, staring at the wound from which scarlet was already pulsing.
Without expression, Lynch returned the knife to its sheath and began climbing out. There was a mad scramble as the others fought to distance themselves from the scene, for whoever was left would surely be blamed. Already someone might be coming, attracted by the noise of the scuffle.
Kydd needed no prompting and made to follow them up and over the cable, but felt his feet impeded.
It was Stallard. “Kydd, help! For fuck’s sake, please help me. I’ve been stuck – bad.”
Kydd hesitated.
“Tom – please! Don’t leave me, for Chrissake!” Stallard coughed weakly, bringing up a copious amount of blood.
He collapsed on the deck, his strength visibly draining from him. “Don’t leave me, Tom, please don’ leave me to die – I can’t die!” His voice became unsteady and the coughing turned into bloody spasms. He reached weakly for Kydd. “Please don’ leave me alone, please, I beg of you. For the love o’ God, stay!”
Kydd saw the anguished, terror-ridden eyes. If he left now he could not live with the guilt. “I won’t leave.”
Another coughing fit racked the dying man. Kydd held him while it passed, careful to avoid the blood. Stallard’s eyes rolled and he started a maundering diatribe.
Outside a walkway deckboard creaked. Kydd clapped his hand over Stallard’s mouth. Stallard struggled awhile, then subsided. Another sound came distinctly.
Kydd held his breath. There were footsteps coming from forward, the direction of the boatswain’s cabin, and they came hesitantly. Stallard gave a spasm and moaned under Kydd’s hand, which he clamped tighter.
The footsteps stopped outside. Scrabbling noises sounded on the outside of the cable. Kydd stared up at the rim of the coil. Stallard fell silent.
Renzi’s face peered over the edge. “Tom?”
Kydd slumped, ashen with relief. He released Stallard, but the man’s head flopped back, his eyes staring open. He had been suffocated – and Kydd had killed him.
Kydd had taken the manner of Stallard’s death hard. “Nicholas?”
Renzi paused in bathing his friend’s healing back. “Yes?”
Kydd looked away. “I’m goin’ to run,” he said.
Renzi couldn’t believe it. Desertion could mean death – the majestic and brutal ceremony of being “flogged around the Fleet,” three hundred lashes on the cruel triangle set up in the boat, which few survived.
It was madness – and where could he desert to, here at sea, a dozen leagues off the French coast? Kydd had been unhinged by his experience, that was clear.
“I plan to be quit o’ the Navy within this sennight,” Kydd said, in a low voice. He looked up – there was only desolation in his eyes. “I’ll need help.”
“Of course, dear fellow.” Renzi felt a hundred questions crowding in – but before them all was the dawning devastation that he had lost his true friend, the only one he felt able to confide in. As a last service he would help Kydd the best way he could – help them to part, almost certainly forever. A lump began to form in his throat, for he
