‘Your house, Rufus,’ Kydd said neutrally. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight now.’
‘W-what? Never!’ Tyrell spluttered. ‘An officer an’ gentleman, you are, Kydd – you’ll come aboard for a snifter, as is the least I can offer a fellow cap’n.’
‘Er, I really must-’
‘Stuff ’n’ nonsense! You’ll come in an’ take m’ hospitality like the gennelman you are.’ A thought struck and he leered suspiciously at Kydd. ‘That is, if you’re not one of the blaggards who can’t stand the company of a fighting seaman.’
The door opened and light spilled out. ‘Is that you, Rufus?’ asked Mrs Tyrell, hesitantly. She was in a mob cap and held a gown tightly around her, clearly called from her bed.
‘Damn sure it is, Hester,’ Tyrell roared, ‘wi’ a guest who’s dry, for God’s sake!’
There was nothing for it but to humour him. Kydd hoped it would not be long.
‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Kydd,’ she said faintly. ‘Er, do come in, pray. I must apologise for the, er …’
‘Not at all, Mrs Tyrell,’ Kydd said warmly, removing his hat. ‘I’m sorry to inconvenience.’
A disgruntled servant, still in his nightcap, stumbled up but was told firmly by Mrs Tyrell that the gentlemen would be supping alone in the front room and she herself would look after them.
They were settled into chairs and a single candle lit; what Kydd could see of the room seemed wan and eerily lifeless.
Mrs Tyrell brought a brandy decanter and glasses and left them.
‘Here’s t’ honour an’ distinction!’ Tyrell said, gesturing grandly, then downing his drink in one.
‘As is the right of every true sea officer,’ Kydd replied, conscious that he had been so blessed but his host had not.
The decanter splashed out more brandy and Tyrell waited meaningfully.
‘Oh – er, to the saucy Arethusa,’ Kydd said hastily, bringing to mind the most iconic ship of the age and impatient to be away.
‘Aye! To the-’ Tyrell stopped. A look of puzzlement, then deep suspicion crossed his face. ‘Why do you … Wha’ do you know about what happened? I demand t’ know!’
Confused, Kydd tried to think. Then he had it. Years ago, part of the blockading fleet off Toulon, as master’s mate he’d been sent, without reason given, as independent witness to Arethusa frigate while the boatswain mustered his stores, returning none the wiser. Then, months later in Gibraltar, he had been sworn to secrecy by her gunner’s mate, a friend, who needed to get it off his chest.
A simple, tawdry tale: the boatswain had conspired with the captain to sell stores and had been found out. Of noble birth, the captain had not been court-martialled and the pair had been quietly removed.
‘Yes, I know about it, Rufus, but that was a damn long time ago.’ What was riding the man? Of a certainty he was not in the fleet at the time.
‘Y-you know, then! I thought, after all these years … Who was it blabbed his mouth?’
To his horror, Kydd could see he was near to tears so answered softly, ‘The gunner’s mate – as swore me to secrecy, Rufus.’
‘Ah. It had t’ be, o’ course.’ He stared away. Kydd was about to take his leave, but then Tyrell downed his brandy in a savage gulp and slopped in more.
‘You wan’ t’ know why I did it,’ he challenged.
‘Why, er-’
‘Wouldn’t unnerstan’ anyway, you swell coves born wi’ a silver spoon in your mouth. Get your place through family, y’r step through interest! Never know what it’s like to be a common jack looking aft, clemmed in a fo’c’sle with wharf rats ’n’ priggers, no hope for it ever.’ He drank again, heavily, then swayed, his head drooping.
Appalled but fascinated, Kydd had to find out what was driving him. ‘So tell me why, Rufus,’ he urged.
‘Wha’? Oh, nothing t’ tell, really. Always wanted to go t’ sea, call o’ the deep wha’ever. M’ father was a doctor, didn’t want me to waste m’ life on the briny, so I up an’ ran away to sea. Fetched up in a three-decker as landman, then t’ Medusa as ordinary seaman.’
So that was what it was! Tyrell had misheard Arethusa as Medusa and thought Kydd was bringing up his guilty secret, whatever it was. And, ironically, it seemed that not only was he from before the mast, as Kydd was, but thought that Kydd was not.
‘And then?’
‘Ah. That was our Cap’n Belkin.’ His thoughts wandered again but when they returned it was with a cruel smile. ‘A depraved brute an’ no one knew it.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘See, I knew what was going on, couldn’t fool me.’
‘Er, what-’
‘He shipped his fancy boy as a volunteer, the villain, an’ I hatched a plan. I broke in on them while he’s a-tupping. Ha! Should’ve seen ’em!’
He cackled, then went on, ‘So in course he has a choice. Public court-martial – or he sets me on his quarterdeck as midshipman.’
The carriage returned through deserted late-night streets, giving Kydd time to come to terms with what had happened. He’d left Tyrell when he’d passed out, going out of his way to reassure his flustered wife.
It was all so plain now: the doctor’s son of some education and standing had been smitten by the sea and had answered the call. He’d found life as a fore-mast jack a hard one and probably made it no easier by putting on airs, antagonising his shipmates. Then a chance had come to claw his way above them. In his later career as an officer, having claim to being a midshipman, he would not need to admit to earlier service before the mast any more than others would, including Nelson himself.
Kydd’s thoughts raced. Did he sympathise? If not, who was he to judge? And how far did what he had learned explain Tyrell’s brutal attitude to the common seamen, his prickly relations with fellow officers and misanthropic social behaviour? Guilt must play a part in his character, as would the need to prove himself, but Kydd could not see how such things could poison a soul so absolutely. Was there something else?
One thing he was sure of: Tyrell was an incomparable fighting seaman and for that, at least, he would give the man the benefit of the doubt.
Chapter 4
Their orders were delayed; in their place Kydd received a summons to a distracted Cochrane, who wasted no time in informing him of L’Aurore’s fate.
‘You’ll victual and store immediately. L’Aurore is to be attached to the Jamaica Squadron in exchange for Nereide. Clear?’
Kydd felt a pang of disappointment: he was doing well on the station – but the needs of the service …
‘Aye aye, sir.’
‘You’ll convey my dispatches to Admiral Dacres and I expect you to sail without delay.’
‘Sir.’
‘Oh, and I’ll relieve you of your junior lieutenant. I have a vacancy through sickness I must fill.’
Bowden.
It would be a wrench, for he’d known the young man since he’d come aboard the old Tenacious as a stuttering midshipman. They’d seen a lot together and he’d become a fine lieutenant who would be a credit to any ship. Now was not the time to object, though.
‘I’ve appointed another, whom you may have as he recovers, fit to serve.’
‘Then he’s in hospital, sir?’
‘Yes. I haven’t spare officers in my pocket, damn it!’
‘Very well, sir.’
‘Then I’ll not trouble you further. Good day to you, sir.’ Cochrane returned to his papers.
‘Sorry, sir, he’s already gone, like,’ the quartermaster said, as Kydd returned aboard, his regret clearly sincere. Bowden was well liked by the hands.
‘Thank you,’ Kydd said heavily, but it was the way of the sea service. ‘Any word from the shore, let me know directly.’