‘Let the truth come out – I beg of you …’
There was no whisper, no movement. Simply a glassy stare.
‘I – I’m going now to the foredeck. There I’ll be waiting – for any who cherishes justice and truth, who will save a great man for his country. And for the sake of his own conscience before God.’
He could do no more.
Slowly he walked forward, past the mess-tables, the young seamen, old shellbacks. Ignorant waisters, long-service petty officers and the countless honest Jack Tars who were the core of any ship’s company.
Up the ladderway, slowly, dignified, and past the ship’s bell to the furthest deck forward. He went to the centre, sat cross-legged, motionless, and waited.
Time passed. He had chosen this place deliberately. It was before-the-mast territory, a seaman’s recreation space and sacred to the purpose, which any officer would not dream of trespassing upon in times of relaxation, as now.
This way they could approach him without fear, on their own ground. There might be before long a shamefaced confession, the men in a body coming forward with the truth.
He waited longer.
There was the sound of footsteps. A single person – who would it be that was-
But it was merely the watch-on-deck, a seaman sent to trim the riding light in the bows. He passed by with his lanthorn, his set face studiously ignoring Bowden. He performed his task, returning without a single glance at the extraordinary sight of an officer sitting on the foredeck, where by now there should have been companionable knots of sailors with clay pipes and leather pots of grog talking easily about their day, perhaps some with a violin or a tuneful voice.
Bowden realised he had to face up to the bitter fact: he had failed completely. None had come up to the foredeck. In a way it was not surprising: if some were inclined to break ranks and approach him they would be seen and marked down as informers. But he had been hoping for a collective resolve. And it had not happened.
‘You realise you were taking a terrible risk, old chap.’
‘Interfering with witnesses, I know. But, by God, I had to try – and I truly believe they would not have informed upon me to the authorities.’
Renzi felt for Bowden, his helplessness in the face of a pitiless Fate, but he carried its weight on his shoulders, too. He had come up with two schemes for rescuing Kydd by stealth but both foundered on the knowledge that he would certainly refuse, sturdily trusting in decency and common law.
He was hollow-eyed with worry, and Bowden looked much the same. They had run out of ideas and, with that, any options for the future.
Bowden wrung his hands over his failure with the Hannibals. ‘As I talked, I could see I’d lost them. There was no common ground, no way to communicate, speak their language …’
‘Stop!’ Renzi cried, as a flash of desperate inspiration came. ‘We’ve one last throw of the die. What if …’
The boat put off once more for Hannibal. It held only one passenger and hooked on at the fore-chains where no visiting boat would ever deign to go. Hannibal’s mate-of-the-watch sent the quartermaster hurrying forwards to intercept the stranger, but by the time he reached the fore-mast a figure had swung over the bulwarks and was inboard.
‘Hey, you – what d’ye think-’
‘Out o’ my way, cully! I got business wi’ the Hannibals,’ the thick-set man growled, knocking him aside.
He slid down the fore-ladder, crossed purposefully to the hatchway and clattered down to the main-deck.
In an age-old routine men were clearing the tables to raise them up against the side of the ship; in the dog-watches the space had changed first from a gun-deck to a mess-deck, and now was transforming again into the open space where at the pipe ‘Down hammocks!’ it would be their communal bedroom.
‘Who are you, then?’ the stranger was asked in astonishment.
Men crowded around to see what apparition out of the night had suddenly appeared in their midst.
The man said nothing, folding his arms and staring about him. More came up, and when the hubbub had died, he spoke.
‘I’m Toby Stirk, gunner’s mate o’ Billy Roarer,’ he grated.
Puzzled looks passed between the men; the quartermaster hovered uncertainly.
He spoke louder. ‘An’ I’m come aboard Hannibal to tip me daddle to the gullion what did for Cap’n Tyrell.’
‘Aye, well …’
‘See, we goes back a long spell. I was gun captain in th’ old Duke William in the last war, when Mantrap was first lootenant o’ the barky.’
Glances of fellow feeling and a dawning respect began to appear.
‘A right bastard then as well, I’d reckon,’ one said.
‘Worse’n that,’ Stirk spat, his eyes glowing.
There were growls of sympathy and a stir in his audience. ‘Come on, Jeb – show yerself!’
A tall, serious-looking seaman came reluctantly forward.
‘Jeremiah Haywood.’
‘You did ’im?’ Stirk said quietly.
‘Aye, I did – but I’m not proud of it, I’ll have thee know,’ the man said, in a troubled voice. ‘Shootin’ in the back ain’t right for any man.’
There were encouraging shouts, and he went on, ‘Gives me two dozen f’r bein’ slow in stays, an’ another dozen afore the first was healed. When I saw him in front o’ m’ musket I just lost m’ rag an’ let fly, is all.’
‘Right. Well, let me go on an’ finish m’ yarn about Duke William. Could be interestin’ to some.’
He paused, letting all eyes find his. ‘See, I’m rememberin’ a young able seaman, runs afoul o’ the bugger. No fault o’ his, and a prime sailorman as ever there was, but he’s triced up and gets the lash as nearly sees ’im fish-meat. Didn’t I tell you his name? Why, it was young Tom Kydd as was.’
Realisation came slowly, but when it did there were sharp intakes of breath and uneasy looks.
‘Yes, mates. One of us. Come aft the hard way, now he always takes care o’ them as fights the ship for him. I’ve known him off ’n’ on for years since, and never ’ave I seen ’im let down ’is shipmates. Never.’
Haywood turned pale.
‘Now he’s in a right stew, no one t’ look out for ’im, no bugger to speak up for ’im. An’ all because us jolly tars won’t see ’im right in the article of owning t’ the crime.’
He turned and faced Haywood, looking at him steadily. ‘I’m not the one t’ peach on another, but if Tom Kydd gets his’n, on account another won’t step forward, I’d let every ship, watch, every mess-deck an’ every shellback in the whole o’ King George’s Navy know the name o’ the one who let him suffer. This I swear!’
In the shocked silence not a soul moved.
Then Haywood threw back his shoulders as though getting rid of a load. ‘No need for threats, mate. M’ mind was made up beforetimes. I’ll go. He’ll not swing.’
Stirk nodded slowly. ‘Cuffin. I’m still goin’ to tell it like it is – that as brave a cove as I know did the right thing when he could’ve walked away from it all.’ He held out his hand. ‘I want to shake yer hand, Mr Haywood.’
He did so, slowly and solemnly.
Turning quickly, Haywood pushed through the crowd, heading aft. ‘Where yer goin’, Jeb?’ someone called.
‘I said I’d do it, an’ I am – an’ that’s right now.’
The others hurried after him, but he strode on.
Stirk forced his way through and grabbed him by the arm. ‘Jeb, mate. Let’s see it’s done right by you. Not a lot o’ sense to give yourself over without you has someone t’ speak for ye. Don’t yez have L’tenant Bowden servin’ in this hooker still?’
‘Aye. An’ he’s aboard, in his cabin this hour.’
‘So let’s see him.’
The crowd had now swollen to more than a hundred and others swarmed up from the identical lower deck to join the throng. The young master’s mate tried to stop them, but Stirk was having none of it. ‘Ask L’tenant Bowden if he’s at liberty t’ come an’ talk.’