The rosy-cheeked Connie McGillie was transparently proud of her brother and insisted that he tell of his adventures on the seven seas, tales that she was sure her guest would not credit in a thousand years. At Stirk’s red-faced hesitation, an amused Kydd was assured that her brother was not one for many words but after the whisky came out there might be more.
Chapter 5
The evening had been a sovereign remedy for his hurry of spirits – and the next morning Kydd borrowed a gnarled stick and set off for the cliff-tops to take his fill of the fine views.
It was a steep climb out of the village but he soon found his stride.
Four or five miles ahead in the glittering sea a pair of islands stretched across his vision. They were effectively the guardians of Dunlochry, a rampart against the open Atlantic beyond, that would throw a lee to all but a south-westerly.
Kydd breathed deeply. The Outer Isles – no more distant and lonely place could be conceived.
In winter, with howling gales and lashed by storms, it would be a very different place but now it reached out to him. There was not a thing of man in sight – and he was utterly on his own with his thoughts, which returned to what he had so recently gone through aboard Tyger.
He stopped walking. A lump grew in his throat and he sat on a flat rock to look out on the limitless sea through fast misting eyes as emotion took hold. His head dropped and he surrendered to the feeling invading his soul, a long, racking and consuming passion born of that experience of carnage and heroism, peril and desperation – what might so easily have been and what triumphantly was. It swept over him like a torrent, cleansing and scouring, leaving him shuddering and weak with the unstoppable force of it all.
Then as if in a dream of long ago he heard a voice. Infinitely kind and gentle, one that his reason had clung to in the gulf of years that separated the famous frigate captain of now from a young seaman in his first skirmish against the enemy, a voice that had then seen him through to the other side. ‘How’s this, Tom, m’ old shipmate? Somethin’ has ye by the tail, then?’
Low and concerned, just as it had been so long ago.
But the hand on his shoulder was real enough. He rubbed his eyes, looked up and saw Stirk’s seamed face drawn in care. It brought on another bout of uncontrollable feeling and he reached for control.
‘I – I’m s-sorry, Toby, j-just came over me.’
It sounded foolish but he couldn’t help it.
‘Don’t be sorry, cuffin. Things in life, well, they’s natural an’ we has t’ see ’em through ourselves and be buggered to any who says else.’
The same patient, practical good sense.
‘Why … why did you come here?’
‘Someone said as how you’re heading up these ’ere cliffs an’ I came to warn ye off ’em. So easy t’ slide over the edge – it gets a sousing from th’ rain.’
‘Thanks, Toby. It’s right … oragious in you, cully.’ The words he had used in a past existence.
The hand patted his shoulder awkwardly. ‘Look, mate. How’s about we two duck down to the kiddleywink and sink a jar or three? Right handsome lot they is in the Lion.’
With rising feeling Kydd realised Stirk had seen him in difficulties and reacted as he would with a messmate. Kind, understanding words and the extending of the rugged mateship of the foremast jack.
There was no need for pretence: he was being treated as any other shipmate – in a man-o’-war that was home to half the races of the world, quirks of character and origin were passed over.
Kydd pulled himself together. ‘Toby. Can I talk straight with you?’
‘Tom, mate, it’s a sad thing if ’n ye thought ye couldn’t.’
‘We’re … we’re talking here as if … all those years … well, as if nothing happened.’
‘Aye. An’ I figured as that’s how it should be, youse bein’ set hard a-weather, like.’
‘It is. Toby, I’d take it very kindly should you stay that way for me for a space. I’ve had a – a grievous lot to take in lately as a whole parcel o’ gentlefolk could never understand. Could you?’
‘In course, matey. Could be we c’n bear a hand f ’r each other,’ he murmured. Then, in a stronger voice, ‘Right then, cully. We’s for the Lion?’
‘I’ll be with you presently, Toby. Just want to be on my own for a while.’
Chapter 6
Stirk set off down the path with a fixed expression. Seeing his old messmate in such straits had disturbed him more than he cared to admit. Kydd had reached out to him. Was it to do with the stiff fight they’d all been through? He himself had taken a knock and since then had been plagued by nightmares of hours at the guns, going at it like a madman. Then whispers of fear stealing in. Was he was getting old, no longer carefree, not so spry on his feet when it came to the absolutes of combat to a lethal conclusion?
There were others coming on ready to take his place. War at sea, these days, was a young man’s game: the harsh conditions, constant threat, endless sea duty. However, in his very being Stirk was a deep-sea mariner and wanted no other life. The prospect of leaving it was impossible to contemplate.
His thoughts returned to Kydd. He could only dimly perceive that the lot of a captain was different. He’d known Kydd as a callow young sailor and even then had seen he was cut from broader cloth. In a way Stirk had secretly gloried in his advancement, first past himself and then across the near unbridgeable divide between fo’c’sle and quarterdeck.
He bore no resentment or jealousy because he took Kydd for what he was – a born seaman and leader of men – and had actively sought out his ships to join; he trusted him completely. Even in Tyger, which he’d known was in mutiny, he’d taken it for granted that Kydd would sort things out.
To be a captain, that was a rum thing to think on. True, they had all the honour and comforts going but he, as a gunner’s mate, would have no hesitation in passing a knotty problem up the tree to an officer – that was what they were paid for, wasn’t it?
He suspected that officers didn’t have the same close-knit intimacy born of danger and interdependence that seamen took for granted and could call upon at any time without shame. And a captain – he had no one. Kydd had taken Tyger into battle with not a soul to talk freely with, to offer suggestions, to argue with, or after the event to say he’d done the right thing – or not. Yes, before there was Mr Renzi, of course, but now he was a noble lord, tending his grand estate.
Tom Kydd would find his old messmate Stirk there when he needed him, and be buggered to what any cove made of that.
With that thought, he felt better.
Chapter 7
The first dark ale at the White Lion went down with relish, and Stirk was about to put in for a threepenny ordinary when he felt his sleeve twitched. ‘Laddie! Ye gave me such a start-’
‘Toby, I needs t’ talk wi’ ye,’ McFadden whispered, looking about nervously.
‘I’m listenin’, mate.’
‘Not ’ere! I cannae-what I wants t’ say is private, you ’n’ me, like.’
At this hour in the afternoon the snug was free and Stirk settled next to him by the inglenook of an unlit fire. ‘Well, what’s it about, then, Laddie?’
The man looked away, as if wrestling with a decision, then leaned closer. ‘It’s a sad puzzle I has, Toby, an’ no one to tell it to for near a twelve-month.’
‘An’ now ye’re going to split wi’ me.’
‘You’re the only one I trusts, Toby, ye know that.’
‘I don’t peach on m’ friends, if that’s y’r meaning.’
‘No, mate, it’s more’n that.’
Furtively checking that no one was watching, he felt about in his breeks. His calloused hand slowly uncurled and in his palm was a single golden coin. ‘Toby, I knows ye’ve seen near everythin’ on y’r voyaging about on the high seas. I want ye to tell me what this is. Go on, take it, an’ have a good look.’