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  In dignified silence, the captains filed in one by one and sat in order of seniority, the president of the court occupying the largest chair in the centre. On either side were tables for the prosecution and the defence, the clerkly judge-advocate decorously apart from both. The massed dark blue and gold of full-dress uniforms filled the space with a powerful impression of the awful majesty of naval discipline.

  ‘Are we settled, then, gentlemen?’ Cochrane asked politely, looking right and left. ‘I’m sure you know the rules. We’ll take dinner at two but I’m not expecting a protracted session.’

  There were nods and murmurs. Kydd eased his neck-cloth, stealing glances at his neighbours, who, he could see, were adopting suitably grave expressions.

  Properly sworn, the court was now in session.

  ‘Then we shall begin. Bring in the accused.’

  There was a shuffling outside and the prisoner appeared, the clink of manacles loud in the silence.

  ‘Your name and rate?’

  ‘Dan’l Smythe, able seaman, sir.’

  Kydd took in the man: his expression was wary and his eyes darted about the cabin. Wiry and well tanned, he must be in his forties; this was no cringing youngster regretting an impulse. The voice was grog-roughened but steady. If the act had been committed while drunk, it would make no difference to the sentence.

  ‘Daniel Smythe, you are charged that on the seventeenth day of September last you did …’

  Kydd listened grimly. It was much as Pym had said but the twenty-second Article of War was being invoked, a capital charge – and he was sitting in judgment on the man.

  ‘Do you plead guilty, or not guilty?’

  ‘Not guilty.’

  There was a pathetic nobility in his manner. He had been brought from days’ confinement below in irons to an abrupt appearance before so many senior naval officers, yet he was clearly going to play it through to the end.

  The young officer who had been appointed to act in his defence looked nervous. He dropped his pen and, red-faced, fumbled to pick it up.

  Opposite, the prosecuting officer waited with a heavy patience, then rose. ‘Sir, this is as clear-cut a case as any I have seen and I do not propose to try the patience of the court with a lengthy submission. I shall be calling but two witnesses, Lieutenant Beale, against whom the offence occurred, and Hannibal’s captain.’

  A ripple went about the court: if the captain himself was coming forward as a prosecution witness there could be little hope for the defence.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Biggs. Lieutenant Hubbard?’

  The officer got to his feet and addressed the court. ‘Sir, Able Seaman Smythe denies the charge, saying his actions have been grievously mistaken and—’

  ‘Just so. Your witnesses?’

  Hubbard hesitated. ‘Er, Able Seaman Hogg and Sailmaker’s Mate Martin who were both—’

  ‘Yes. Are they present?’ Cochrane enquired.

  Kydd frowned. If the only testimony Smythe could muster were fore-mast hands, things were looking bleak for him.

  ‘They are, sir.’

  ‘Then we’ll proceed. Mr Biggs?’

  The essence of the case was laid out in dry, neutral tones. The captain had singled out a man in the crew about the main top bowline bitts as laggardly in his duties and had sent for Lieutenant Beale to hale him aft. There had been sharp words, a scuffle and a belaying pin had been drawn. Smythe had been restrained from actual violence by others in the crew. While being escorted to the quarterdeck, the prisoner had continued to struggle and utter threats until taken below and confined in irons. During this time a sizeable number of Hannibal’s company had shown common cause with Smythe and had assembled in a mutinous manner. The marines were turned out and the men dispersed.

  ‘Call Lieutenant Beale.’

  ‘You were the officer on duty at the fore-mast?’ Biggs opened.

  ‘I was,’ Beale said, with a prim, disapproving air.

  ‘Tell the court in your own words the events leading up to this unfortunate incident.’

  ‘Sir. On being desired by the captain to deal with the prisoner, I went to him and remonstrated with him for his conduct, he hanging back when ordered to sweat off on the slablines. He did then swear in a manner derogatory to the name of the Lord at which I said I would inform the captain of this. In reply he damned myself, the captain, and the ship all to Hell, at which I ordered him seized. He drew a pin from the bitts and would have had at me, were he not restrained.’

  ‘Can you in any way account for this behaviour?’

  ‘Er, I believe the man was fuddled in liquor at the time, sir.’

  Kydd looked down. It was all playing out like some tragic play that could have only one ending, and he was powerless to intervene.

  ‘Your witness, Lieutenant Hubbard.’

  Throwing a nervous glance at the stern features of the admiral, the young man addressed the witness, who lifted his chin disdainfully. ‘Lieutenant, this man is in your division?’

  ‘He is.’

  ‘Then you’ll know the prisoner is – how must we say? – famously short-fused. If provoked he may well act in a manner he might later regret.’

  ‘This is no excuse in a man-o’-war, sir.’

  ‘And you will also be aware that, two days before, this man had suffered a dozen lashes for insubordination?’

  ‘Which rather proves the point, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘That was not my intent,’ Hubbard said, with a growing intensity. ‘Rather, it is to give reason to the act. Smythe was doing his duty as best he could – with savage wounds healing on his back he was being asked to perform strenuous acts occasioning extreme pain. Is it any cause for wonder that he should react with such feeling to being told he was remiss in his duty?’

  ‘This is not for me to say,’ Beale said woodenly.

  ‘No further questions, sir.’

  It was as clear to Kydd as if he had seen it happening before him. The proud seaman, wanting to take his stripes like a man, had not reported sick and had done his best – until the prissy Beale had intervened. That his messmates had seen to it that he had rum to ease his suffering had only aggravated the situation and he had gone over the edge. What kind of ship was it that did not have the humanity to make allowances?

  ‘Mr Biggs?’

  ‘Call Captain Tyrell!’

  At first the name meant nothing. Then into the court came a figure from Kydd’s past. Short but powerfully built, thick eyebrows above deep-set eyes and a restless, dangerous air. Kydd was seeing again the first lieutenant of the ship into which he had been press-ganged so many years before, now post-captain of a ship-of-the-line.

  He would never forget those eyes, that pugnacious, challenging bearing – and as well how he had single-handedly faced down a gathering mutiny, the lion-like courage he had shown in the hopeless royalist uprising. And the pitiless discipline that had made him an object of hatred.

  ‘You are captain of HMS Hannibal, sir.’

  ‘I am.’ That harsh, flat voice from those days before the mast.

  ‘Can you tell the court what you witnessed on the day in question, sir?’

  ‘I saw the prisoner at the slablines with the others and the villain was slacking. Idling, I say. While his party were hauling hearty he was shirking. Not standing for it, I sent L’tenant Beale for’ard to take him in charge and saw there was an argument. I stepped up to see what it was and with my own eyes saw Smythe draw a pin and take a murderous swing at Mr Beale. Then I—’

  Hubbard held up a hand tentatively. ‘A – a point of order, Mr President?’

  Cochrane frowned. ‘What is it, Mr Hubbard?’

  ‘Simply a matter of clarification, if you please, sir. We have Mr Beale’s testimony that the prisoner was restrained from making any blow, yet Captain Tyrell here has stated that an attack was made. May we …?’

  ‘Interrupting a witness is most irregular, sir. Yet I’ll answer you on that – it doesn’t signify one whit. The twenty-
second Article of War, of which the prisoner stands charged, specifies clearly – and I quote, “… who shall strike, or draw or offer to draw, or lift up any weapon against him …” by which we may understand that the simple act of taking up the belaying pin with the object of injuring this officer in the execution of his duty is sufficient to condemn.

  ‘Carry on, Captain Tyrell.’

  ‘Then I had the rogue taken up. This stirred up his accomplices who made motions to deny me. I must turn out the marines before I could restore order on my own decks, the mutinous rabble! I’m sorry to say that this ship’s company is a scurvy crew, the worst scum it’s been my misfortune to command, and I demand an example be made.’

  ‘Ah, just so, Captain Tyrell. Have you any further questions, Lieutenant?’

  ‘Er, yes. Sir, have you had cause to punish Smythe on any previous occasions?’

  ‘I have! Above half a dozen times, the vile shab!’

  Cochrane stirred impatiently. ‘Captain, I’ll not have such language in my court. Kindly confine yourself to the facts, if you please.’

  More mildly, he addressed Hubbard. ‘I think you can take it that the prisoner has a record of ill behaving. What in my day we called a “King’s hard bargain”, if memory serves.’

  There were dutiful smiles but the young officer was not to be deflected. ‘Sir, I have on hand Hannibal’s punishment book. I beg permission to read from it.’

  ‘What the devil—?’

  Tyrell’s objection was cut short by a look from the president of the court, who then replied, ‘If it’s pertinent to the case, sir.’

  Hubbard took the book and began reading. ‘Twelve lashes for wry talk … half a dozen for being slow in stays and another dozen for silent contempt … mastheaded for six hours …’ It went on and on, a revealing litany of suffering that told of a ship in the hellish thrall of a tyrant.

  ‘This is for the last two months. And, additionally, may I be allowed to point out that I find in the eight months of this commission, at least sixty of the ship’s company have been punished beyond that of Smythe and—’

  ‘Hah! All that shows, damn it, is what I said – I’ve a mutinous crew of rascals that need discipline.’

  ‘Captain, you should answer questions as they are put to you, not offer general observations.’

  Tyrell smouldered. ‘Sir, I’ve the strongest objection to being told how to keep discipline in my ship by this—’

  ‘Sir, my intent in this is to show that, far from being a persistent offender and a blaggard, the prisoner is of a one with the majority of the ship’s company, the victim of the most heinous regime that—’

  Cochrane slapped the table sharply. ‘We are here to try the prisoner, Lieutenant, not Captain Tyrell. We have indulged you this far – if you have other evidence, do produce it at the right time.’

  Kydd threw a glance of sympathy at Hubbard as the witness was stood down.

  Biggs drew himself up importantly. ‘There really is no point in prolonging the business. You have heard two unimpeachable witnesses swear to this unforgivable act of defiance and I dare to say the matter is proved. However, if the court wishes I could summon a further fifty.’

  ‘Thank you, no, Mr Biggs.’ The admiral took a sip of water and dabbed at his mouth with a lace handkerchief. ‘Lieutenant Hubbard?’

  Laying out the case for the defence was the work of small minutes, a man driven by despair to his own destruction, one to be pitied rather than condemned.

  Hubbard then summoned his first witness. ‘Call Able Seaman Hogg.’

  The prosecuting officer was on his feet in an instant. ‘Objection!’

  ‘Mr Biggs?’

  ‘Those same ship’s books,’ he said, with a tinge of sarcasm, ‘reveal that Hogg is not only in the same watch as Smythe but messes with him. I hardly think his testimony can be considered at all impartial, not to say disinterested. I ask that it be disallowed.’

  Cochrane nodded gravely. ‘This must be so – you can see that, can you not, Mr Hubbard? The word of a gentleman is one thing, that of the lesser sort quite another matter. This witness is excused.’

  ‘Then I call Sailmaker’s Mate Martin,’ Hubbard said defiantly, ‘who does not mess with the prisoner.’

  Biggs rose wearily. ‘But is his tie-mate. Same objection.’

  It was the custom for those sailors with pig-tails to choose a trusted friend to plait it for a return of the favour. Biggs had been clever to discover this information, which had essentially completed the destruction of the case for the defence.

  ‘Ah. Then I must disallow this witness too,’ Cochrane said uncomfortably.

  ‘Have you any others you may call upon in their stead, Mr Hubbard?’ he prompted.

  The young officer’s face burned. ‘None, it seems, that can stand before gentlemen,’ he said tightly.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Kydd blurted. ‘Can’t we just hear what he’s got to say?’

  Cochrane looked sideways in astonishment. ‘Mr Kydd! I find your outburst both ill-timed and impertinent. Your duty is to sit in judgment after hearing the evidence. In silence, sir, not to intervene as you see fit.’

  Kydd dropped his gaze. It was not worth creating a scene – in any case, it was unlikely that the sailmaker’s mate could achieve much for his friend now.

  To his surprise, Cochrane harrumphed. ‘On reflection I have decided to allow this witness to speak.’

  After a small delay a stooped, apprehensive little man was ushered in. He stood blinking, in his nervousness passing his hat from one hand to the other.

  ‘You are John Martin, sailmaker’s mate?’

  He gulped, then whispered, ‘Aye.’

  ‘And you know the accused, Daniel Smythe?’

  Darting a quick look at the prisoner, he nodded hastily, then looked down.

  ‘Come now, Martin, there’s no need to be afraid. Simply answer the questions the way we agreed,’ Hubbard said kindly.

  Biggs swooped: ‘Sir, this is insupportable. The witness has been coached in his answer by the defence!’

  Cochrane leaned back heavily and sighed. ‘Mr Hubbard. I’ve given you every possible indulgence but this is—’

  ‘Sir!’ the lieutenant came back. ‘Martin is unused to appearing in public and I sought only to ease his fears in the manner of his speaking.’

  ‘Nevertheless, Mr Biggs’s contention cannot easily be dismissed. I rule that this evidence is tainted. Stand down the witness. I rather think you must look to concluding your case, sir.’

  The prosecution’s summing up was brisk, simple and short. The prisoner had committed the act before witnesses and no extenuating circumstances had been found. There could be no finding other than guilty.

  Kydd looked across at Smythe. There was no change in his expression as he heard the damning words – he must have known there was no hope from the outset but he was not giving his accusers the satisfaction of showing fear.

  Hubbard performed nobly. Allowed full scope for his speech, he spoke eloquently of the lot of the common seaman, of the harshness of his daily life at sea. He touched on Smythe’s ‘very good’ for conduct when discharged from other ships but when he appeared to veer towards a criticism of the regime of discipline in Hannibal he was stopped and cautioned.

  ‘Thank you, Lieutenant. The court will now consider its verdict.’

  The cabin was cleared of all but the president and members of the court.

  ‘A straightforward enough case, I would have thought,’ Cochrane said. ‘Does anyone have any strong views at all?’

  This was Kydd’s chance – but what could he do? The man had raised a weapon at a superior officer, an unforgivable crime in the Navy, and before his shipmates. If he were not punished accordingly they themselves would be in breach of the same Articles of War.

  ‘He’s culpable, of course,’ he found himself saying, ‘but in respect to the wounds of his flogging, should we not consider a mort o’ leniency at all?’

  ‘I
mpossible,’ Cochrane snapped. ‘The relevant article leaves us no leeway. If I have to remind you, the previous article allows “… upon pain of such punishment as a court-martial shall think fit to inflict, according to the degree of the offence …” but no backing and filling in this one: “… every such person being convicted of any such offence, by the sentence of a court-martial shall suffer death.” You see?’

  He went around the table, brusquely asking for a verdict from each captain.

  ‘Guilty,’ Kydd said dully at his turn.

  ‘So, we are agreed. The court will give its judgment. Bring in the prisoner.’

  The man stood tense but with a glassy stare.

  ‘Daniel Smythe. This court finds you guilty as charged of an offence contrary to Article Twenty-Two of the Articles of War. Have you anything to say before sentence is passed upon you?’

  He lifted his manacles, then let them drop in a gesture of despair, but no word escaped him.

  Even when the dire sentence of execution was pronounced he held his head high, his gaze on an unknowable infinity.

  But Cochrane had not finished. ‘Your offence I note was made before others who seem inclined to sympathise with your act. I can see no alternative other than to follow the example of that great admiral the Earl of St Vincent. Therefore, as a warning to each and every one, in two days hence you shall be hanged at the fore-yard of your ship – by your own shipmates.

  ‘Take him away.’

  After the verdict and sentence were recorded and signed by each member of the court, Cochrane declared it dissolved and leaned back, his face looking lined and old.

  ‘A distasteful business to be sure,’ he muttered.

  On the appointed day, at precisely eleven in the forenoon, a yellow flag mounted the main-masthead of Hannibal. From every ship in the squadron a boat left to take position off the vessel, spectators at the last act in the drama. Other ships warped about to allow their companies, turned up on deck in solemn ranks, to gaze on the scene and learn the fate of those who dared lift a hand against authority.

  Kydd, with other captains, stood witness on the ship’s quarterdeck, aware of his role as a symbol of the authority and majesty of law that was extinguishing the life of a fellow sailor.