Mutiny k-4 Read online

  'They've hauled their wind!' the voice of the forward midshipman shrilled, withdrawing from a gunport. 'Headin' north!'

  Kydd brushed a gun-crew aside and peered out. The Spanish had not completed the turn into the Bay of Gibraltar: they had simply braced up and headed north, past - and away. After the urgent recall to his ship, Kydd felt a sense of frustration. But then the lieutenant of the gundeck, staring hard at the enemy ships, said coldly, 'They're making for Cadiz. Together they will outnumber even Jervis, heaven help us!'

  The cro'jack was got up into the mizzen very satisfactorily. Kydd's party in the tops took care of the chain sling and, his suggestion being adopted, additional cleats were secured out on the yard through which the truss-pendants could be led to their own thimbles. By this neat solution, the wicked swing of the cro'jack in any kind of beam sea would be effectively damped without the need for rolling tackles from the deck.

  Idly he watched his seamen passing the rose-lashing, which fixed in place the cushioning dolphin underneath the spar, and relished a sense of satisfaction in a job well done. He had personal experience enough of fine seamanship as a life-preserving imperative never to take the short path.

  Cockburn dismissed the deck party and waited for Kydd to descend the shrouds. 'Tell me, in what character will you be attending your assembly?'

  Taken aback, Kydd hesitated. 'I should—'

  'You will have noticed "'masquerade" on the invitation, of course.'

  'But ...' Kydd had no idea of the oddities of polite society, and could only wait for the elucidation that Cockburn was clearly looking to provide.

  'This means that your assembly is in the nature of a fancy-dress, I fear.'

  'I -1—' Kydd struggled for words.

  Four days later, at three bells in the first dog-watch, Mr Kydd and Mr Cockburn were logged as stepping ashore. What was not noted was the capacious sea-bag carried by Mr Kydd, and the haste with which they hurried to a small taphouse in King's Yard Lane.

  Minutes after, at a side entrance, the astonishing sight of King Neptune emerged furtively, holding his crown and trident self-consciously, but looking a striking picture with his muscular torso exposed.

  'Best o' luck!' Cockburn chuckled, Kydd's sea-going rig safely in the bag.

  'Be damn'd!' Kydd growled, but an impish delight was building in him.

  The first measures of the dance were as fearsome a trial as bringing in topsails under the eye of the admiral, but the same skills that made Kydd a fine seaman out on a yard came to his rescue and he stepped out the rest of the dance with increasing confidence.

  His partners, an improbable wood-nymph, a well-nourished Britannia, a shy young swan and a stout milkmaid, all enjoyed dancing with Neptune. The candlelight did well for Kydd's sea-darkened complexion, and he attracted many thoughtful female glances.

  He dared a look round the long room: great chandeliers cast a golden light that picked out the sparkles of ladies' jewellery and gentlemen's quizzing glasses. The smell of candles and perspiration was swamped in a generous cloud of fragrances, but there was an unmistakable air of living for the moment. With a stab, Kydd remembered the grave threats out in the wider world that might bring all of this to an end.

  Uneasily aware that he could be thought a trespasser socially if the gentlemen around him knew his status, he held firmly to the fact that he had been personally invited. And in the happy chatter around him he could perceive that there were others who in England's polite society could not expect an invitation to such an evening as this. How kind of Emily to invite him. She was a striking woman: tall, self-possessed, she had the disturbing trick of letting her voice change to a low purr in the intimacy of a personal conversation.

  Kydd smiled and waved at a laughing mermaid sweeping by.

  Emily, thinly disguised as a Spanish temptress, approached him at refreshments. 'Do I see you enjoying yourself, Mr Kydd?' she asked lightly, flourishing a large, colourful fan.

  'Aye, Mrs Mulvany,' Kydd said, although his oakum beard was itching and his cardboard crown drooping in the heat.

  'Do call me Emily,' she protested. 'May I, er .. .' 'Thomas it is, er, Emily,' Kydd said. 'Your husband?' 'Sadly, he cannot be with us tonight. A sweetmeat, Thomas?'

  He had become aware that he was the centre of attention for several other ladies and turned to address them, but a disturbance at the entrance to the room resolved into the arrival of an imperious young officer, his tall hat tucked under his arm.

  The hubbub went on, so he bent impatiendy to the resting string quartet, who obliged by sounding a single strident chord. The talking died in puzzlement, and the officer strode to the centre of the room. 'News!' he declared dramatically. An animated murmuring spread among the guests. 'The descent on England . ..' He waited for silence; the last news anyone had had was of the French fleet's sudden sally past Pellew's frigates towards England; all else was speculation. '. . . has been scattered, destroyed!'

  Excited chatter burst out and Kydd exclaimed. The soldier turned to face him. 'They didn't attempt England — Irish traitors ready to rebel welcomed 'em over there, but it was a gale o' wind from the north, and the troops couldn't land.' He took a hurried breath. 'Our fleet missed 'em, but the storm sent 'em all ahoo and they're back where they came from, the knaves.'

  'Ye mean—'

  'No invasion, no great battle.' The officer flashed a boyish grin at Kydd, bowed to the ladies and left.

  In the babble of agitated comment that broke out Emily took Kydd's arm. 'This is Mr Kydd, and he's mate o f the Achilles she announced loudly. 'He shall explain it all to us.'

  It would be of no use to protest the subtleties of naval rank and rating at this time: a rapidly gathering group of dryads, harlequins and nondescripts were converging on him wanting reassurance. But what were the full circumstances? Did 'destroyed' mean the French were lost in the weather? 'They're back where they came from' implied the invasion fleet was still intact and therefore a mortal danger. What if—

  'Ye'll understand a storm o' wind at sea can't be commanded b' any admiral. If it blows, y' can't just—'

  'A gale from the north?' The willowy faun had perfect white teeth and a remarkably well-turned ankle.

  'Why, this is y'r worst news if you were a Frenchy,' Kydd began, to general interest, 'a foul wind f'r Ireland, right in y'r teeth—'

  'What's it like in a storm, Mr Kydd? Do tell!' The young swan, fetchingly accented in blue, simpered under her eyelashes. Kydd blushed at the attentions from the attractive young women all around him. Emily frowned and stood closer, her hand still on his arm. Kydd felt it grip him hard.

  Instinctively, Kydd knew he had been a success. Cockburn had pressed for details, and he had obliged, entertained by his friend's visible envy. He knew, however, that if Renzi had attended, his natural patrician urbanity would have assured him a place at the centre of things. Almost guiltily Kydd found himself grateful he had not been there.

  His thoughts turned to Renzi's situation: he had heard that Admiral Jervis and his fleet were in the Tagus, Lisbon, encouraging the Portuguese, but they were the only force in any way able to meet the French, should they put to sea again. What would happen if both the French and the Spanish should simultaneously emerge and combine did not bear thinking about. And Nicholas was there . . .

  Aboard Achilles, life settled to a dull routine. Most seamen had seen their means dissipated quickly. As the days turned into weeks their prospects for diversion were not large, and a disquieting pattern asserted itself: cheap wine and quarrels with soldiers ashore led to meaningless fights in the frustration of endless inaction. Aboard, 'hands to witness punishment' was now almost a daily feature, and the atmosphere in the mess decks was turning ugly. The officers found things to do ashore and were seldom aboard at night.

  Kydd was restless too, but he found himself thinking more and more of Emily. Was he imagining it, or did she like him? He reviewed his attendance at the assembly—he was certain he had not let her down, and he was
positive she had spent more time with him than with any other; in a glow he remembered her alabaster complexion, the startling blue-green eyes and delicate hands — Emily really was an attractive woman. She hadn't mentioned her husband much . .. Did that mean -

  His eyes snapped into focus: the first lieutenant was coming aboard and looking at him curiously as he mounted the brow to the quarterdeck. Kydd touched his hat.

  'Ah, Mr Kydd, I'm desired to give you this.' The officer fumbled inside his waistcoat and drew out an envelope, which he passed across, watching for reaction. It was in a hand Kydd recognised. He took it, and placed it carefully inside his jacket without comment.

  In the absent master's sea cabin aft Kydd pulled out his letter and hurriedly broke the wafer.

  Dear Thomas,

  My dear friend Letitia and I usually spend an enjoyable day on Thursdays sketching at Europa Point. Letitia thought that perhaps you might like to join us one time, should you feel so inclined. The prospects to be had of Africa and Europe together do entrance and would exercise the skill of a Girtin or Cogens but we will have such enormous fun.

  If this appeals, would you signify to the above address at your convenience . . .

  Kydd let out his breath. What could he read into this? With increasing elation he decided to consult with Cockburn as to the correct routine at a sketching party.

  Never having ridden a donkey before, Kydd straddled the beast nervously; its round belly and knobbly spine felt utterly strange. Fortunately its grey ears flicked nonchalantly back and forth without resentment at his gawky mounting, and he perched on its back, feet nearly touching the ground. Feeling a fool, Kydd smiled tentatively at Emily.

  'Well, then!' she responded, and tapped her donkey with a polished rattan. The little party wound off southwards: Letitia, Emily, Kydd and a weatherbeaten old Moor leading a donkey piled with easels and paraphernalia.

  'So good of you to come,' Emily said. She was riding side-saddle, swaying in time with the clopping of the animal's hoofs.

  'My pleasure, er, Emily.' He was aware of Letitia's covert gaze on him; she was a studious, quiet soul without much conversation - might that be due to his presence?

  Within half a mile they had left behind the flank of the Rock and emerged on to the flat area at its tip, which Kydd knew, from the navigation charts, was Europa Point, and which he had fixed by bearing as they had approached from seaward.

  They made their way to the rocky end of the land where there was a convenient flat ramp, and dismounted, Kydd's rump sore and aching. The ladies in their comfortable white exclaimed at the scene. At their feet, stretching to an immensity, was the deep blue of the sea, but straight ahead in the distance was the purple and grey-blue bulk of a mountain at the side of the spreading width of another coast. 'Africa!' announced Emily, with a dramatic flourish.

  The Straits of Gibraltar to the left was the Mediterranean, and the primordial birthplace of civilisations; on the other side was the Atlantic Ocean and the pathway to the rest of the world. Kydd glanced to his right, at the nearby coastline angling away into the distance in a series of bays and headlands. 'Spain - Algeciras an' Tarifa,' he offered.

  Emily turned briefly to check on the silent Arab, patiendy spacing out three easels to face the scene, then came to stand next to Kydd, shading her eyes to look over the glittering sea. 'And the mountain on the other side,' she said softly, 'is Jebel Musa in Morocco, which in ancient times they thought was the other Pillar of Hercules.' She looked up at him, almost searchingly. 'The end of the known world.'

  Kydd felt an awkwardness, an almost adolescent clumsiness at her closeness, then she moved away to the easels. She sat at the middle one, delicately perched on the three-legged portable stool, making a business of unpacking her kit. 'Have you brought anything with you, Thomas?' she asked, in a brisk, practical manner.

  'My silver-lead pencil of course,' Kydd said, with only a twinge of guilt that it was actually Cockburn's treasured possession, 'and a quantity of y'r common run o' Cumberlands.' The graphite from that county provided the whole world with fine black-lead pencils.

  Emily had out a curious tray of colours, which she fastened to the easel. 'I have favoured cake water-colours,' she said, sounding to Kydd's ears suspiciously professional, 'since I saw what Captain Cook's artist did with those breathtaking views of Otaheite.' She poured water into a small well, and slung a selection of well-used brushes in a quiver to one side of the easel. She adjusted her wide-brimmed sun-hat and addressed her paper with purpose.

  Kydd had a sketch book, unused, that he had acquired from a young midshipman in exchange for the loan of two clean white stockings. He set it up on the easel and selected a Cumberland; he would do the fine work with the silver pencil. Aware of Letitia's furtive glances, he sized the view.

  It was not difficult — he had executed innumerable sea perspectives for the master of Artemis in the South Seas for inclusion on the margins of sea charts and knew the discipline of exactitude in representation.

  With a light breeze and the occasional sound of gulls, it was pleasant work, and their surroundings were conducive to artistic expression. Kydd had soon finished the African coast, and began on the irregular Spanish landscape. This demanded care, for their height-of-eye at this elevation could cunningly deceive, turning square perspectives into slants.

  'Oh, my goodness! You are good, Thomas! Look at this, Letitia — he has a very fine hand.' He had not heard her approach, and felt the heat of a blush at her words. She bent to admire his work, her femininity briefly enclosing him, then turned to him without drawing away. 'You will think my piece so amateur.' She giggled.

  Taking his cue, Kydd rose and sauntered across to her easel, trying to look at ease. The watercolour was bold, using clear tints not perhaps justified by the hazy wash of sun over far objects, but had a vibrancy that he had not the experience to identify. But the coastlines were sadly out of proportion, the vertical dimension, as was always the way with beginners to a seascape, greatly exaggerated.

  'It's — it's wonderful,' he found himself saying. Behind him Emily stifled a giggle. Kydd couldn't think what else to say and stared woodenly ahead.

  'I say—I have a most marvellous idea!' He swung round at the sudden energy in her voice. 'We shall combine our talents — you have the strong structure, I shall add colour — and together we will produce a masterpiece.' She didn't wait for a reply, but ran over to his easel and abstracted his drawing, brought it back and clipped it over her own.

  'There! Now we shall see!' Emily selected a broad brush and mixed a quantity of pale blue from the squares of colour in the ingenious wooden box. She soon had a colour wash in place, and set to with finer brushes on his coasts. Her cunning use of ochre and light purple had his pencil hatching underneath take on a sinister, distant quality, which undeniably brought a dramatic quality to the original.

  Engrossed, she persevered at the fine work, her dainty hands perfect for the task. Kydd cast a glance at Letitia, still at her picture; their eyes met, but there was no answering smile.

  At last, Emily leaned back and gazed critically at the result. 'There!' she said, and stared at it, motionless, for a space. She turned and looked up at Kydd with large eyes and said seriously, 'It's really very good, is it not, Thomas? We make quite a pair, I believe.'

  Kydd felt heat rising, but before he could speak, Emily had snapped shut the box and stood. 'I think we have earned our picnic, don't you?'

  'God blast ye, Mr Kydd, what d'you think you're about? You've not overhauled y'r clewlines.' The master was choleric: the times for the topsail setting evolution were sadly delayed by Kydd's failure to see that the clewlines were loosened at his mizzen-mast at the same rate as the sheets were hauled in.

  It seemed everyone was in a state of enervation. Attempts to stir the ship's company to life with harbour exercises were met with sullen lethargy. The Achilles of the Caribbean was becoming a fading memory, the cruises to sweep the seas of the enemy, the landings to wrest yet
another rich island from the French all in the past. Below, mess-decks were aligning themselves between the real seamen and the unfortunates of the quota.

  Kydd could feel the resentment — and the broken-down pride. To be left to rot in port was hard for a good seaman to take, especially when England was menaced by as great a danger as she had ever been.

  Evening drew in and, with it, more tiresome carping in the gunroom and petty quarrelling on the lower deck. Kydd made up his mind to take a turn along the streets of Gibraltar to get away.

  It was impossible to avoid the wine shops at the lower levels of the town, and Kydd pushed past hurriedly, but at one angry shouts climaxed with the ejection of a thick-set seaman, who skidded angrily in the dust then staggered to his feet. It was a common sight and Kydd moved to go round the spectacle - but something about the build of the man made him hesitate.

  It was Crow - Isaac Crow of the Artemis, the hard and fearless captain of the maintop who had been so much a part of Kydd's past — become a wine-soaked travesty of his former self. Kydd steadied him and leaned him against a wall. 'Isaac, where—'

  'What - well, if it ain't me ol' shipma' Tom Kydd!' Crow chortled. His clothes were musty and ragged, probably all he had left after selling the rest for cheap drink, Kydd guessed.

  His expression changed. In an instant his overly cheery features grew pinched, suspicious. 'A master's mate, our Tom Kydd, doin' well fer 'isself. Still know yer frien's, then?' He pushed away Kydd's steadying hand and drew himself up. 'Th' blackstrap they sells 'ere is worse'n goat's piss.'