"This is of no account! At sea there is no excusing a man-o'-war's man being found beastly drunk at any hour, when paid by the King to hold himself in readiness to defend his country! Have you anything to add as witness to his character?"
"Er, Lamb is a willing hand. His ropework is admired by all in the maintop. And, er, he volunteered into Tenacious and is always forward in his duty . . ."
The captain glanced once at Adams, then fixed Lamb with a terrible stare. "Have you anything to say for yourself, you rogue?"
Lamb shook his head and bit his lip. "Then I find you guilty as charged. Two dozen!" Lamb went white. This was savage medicine, quite apart from the theoretical limit of a dozen strokes allowed a captain at sea.
"Haaands lay aft to witness punishment—aaaall the hands." Boatswain's mates strode about above and below decks with their piercing silver calls, summoning witnesses to justice. As would be the way of it from now on, Kydd remained out of sight below in the wardroom, avoiding conversation until the word was passed down for the final ceremony.
"Officers t' muster!" squeaked a messenger at last. Solemnly, the officers left the wardroom and made their way up to the quarterdeck. There, the gratings were rigged, one lashed upright to the half-deck bulkhead and one to stand on. The ship's company were mustered ready, a space of open deck, then a sea of faces stretching forward. Kydd avoided their gaze, moving quickly up the ladder to the poop-deck.
The captain stalked forward to the poop-rail, much as Kydd had seen so many times before from the opposite side, looking up as a foremast hand. Now, with the other officers, he stood squarely behind him, seeing only the back of his head. Blackly, he saw that his view of proceedings was obscured by the break of the poop, and that therefore on all those occasions before, the officers must have seen nothing of the lashes and the agony.
Marines stood to attention at the rails, a drummer-boy at the ready. Lamb stood before his captain, flanked by the powerful figures of two boatswain's mates. A brief rattle of the drum brought a subdued quiet.
"Articles of War!" barked Houghton. His clerk passed them across. "'Article two: All persons in or belonging to His Majesty's ships or vessels of war, being guilty of drunkenness, uncleanness or other scandalous actions, in derogation of God's honour, shall incur such punishment . . . as the nature and degree of their offence shall deserve.'"
He closed the little book. "Carry on, boatswain's mate."
The prisoner was led over to the gratings and out of sight, but Kydd—flogged himself once—needed no prompting to know what was going on. Stripped and lashed up by the thumbs, Lamb would be in a whirl of fear and shame and, above all, desperately lonely. In minutes his universe would narrow to one of pounding, never-ending torment.
Kydd had seen floggings by the score since his own, but this one particularly affected him.
The drum thundered away, then stopped. Kydd's skin crawled in anticipation of that first, shocking impact. In the breathless quiet he heard the unmistakable hiss of the cat, then the vicious meaty smack and thud as the body was driven against the gratings. A muffled, choking sob was all that escaped—Lamb was going to take it like a man.
There was a further volleying of the drum; again the sudden quiet and the sound of the lash. There was no sound from Lamb.
It went on and on. One part of Kydd's mind cried out—but another countered with cold reason: no-one had yet found a better system of punishment that was a powerful deterrent yet allowed the offender to return to work. Ashore it was far worse: prison and whipping at the cart's tail for a like offence—even children could face the gallows for little more.
The lashing went on.
The noon sight complete, the officers entered the wardroom for their meal. "Your man took his two dozen well, Gervase," Pringle said to Adams, as they sat down. He tasted his wine. "Quite a tolerable claret."
Adams helped himself to a biscuit. "I wonder if Canada rides to hounds—'t would be most gratifying to have some decent sport awaiting our return from a cruise. They've quite fine horseflesh in Nova Scotia, I've heard."
"Be satisfied by the society, old chap. Not often we get a chance at a royal court, if that's your bag."
"Society? I spent all winter with my cousin at his pile in Wiltshire. Plenty of your county gentry, but perilously short of female company for my taste."
Conversation ebbed and flowed around Kydd. As usual, he kept his silence, feeling unable to contribute, although Renzi had by degrees been drawn up the table and was now entertaining Bryant with a scandalous story about a visit to the London of bagnios and discreet villas. Pringle flashed Kydd a single veiled glance and went on to invite Bampton to recount a Barbados interlude, leaving him only the dry purser as dinner companion.
The afternoon stretched ahead. Kydd knew that Renzi had come to look forward to dispute metaphysics with the erudite chaplain and had not the heart to intervene. Having the first dogwatch, he took an early supper alone and snapped at Tysoe for lingering. Melancholy was never far away these days.
He went up on deck early, and approached the master. "Good day to ye, Mr Hambly."
"An' you too, sir."
"Er, do you think this nor' easterly will stay by us?"
"It will, sir. These are the trades, o' course." Hambly was polite but preoccupied.
"I've heard y' can get ice this time o' the year."
The master hesitated. "Sir, I have t' write up the reckonings." He touched his hat to Kydd and left.
At four he relieved Bampton, who disappeared after a brief handover. Once more he took possession of the quarterdeck and the ship, and was left alone with his thoughts.
An hour later Renzi appeared. "Just thought I'd take a constitutional before I turn in," he said, "if it does not inconvenience." He sniffed the air. "Kydd, dear fellow, have you ever considered the eternal paradox of free will? Your Oriental philosopher would have much to say, should he consider your tyrannous position at the pinnacle of lordship in our little world . . ."
Kydd's spirits rose. There had been little opportunity so far to renew their old friendship, and he valued the far-ranging talks that had livened many a watch in the past. "Shall ye not have authority, and allow a false freedom to reign in bedlam?" he said, with a grin, falling into pace next to Renzi.
"Quite so, but Mr Peake advances an interesting notion concerning the co-existence of free will in the ruled that requires my disabusing the gentleman of his patently absurd views." He stared out pensively to leeward.
Kydd stopped dead. Bitterness welled and took focus. Renzi stopped, concerned. "What is it, brother? Are you—"
"Nothing!" Kydd growled, but did not resume his walk.
"May I—"
"Your ven'rable Peake is waiting—go and dispute with him if it gives you s' much pleasure!" Kydd said bitterly.
Renzi said softly, "There is something that ails you. I should be honoured were you to lay it before me, my friend."
It was not the time or place—but Kydd darted a glance around the quarterdeck. No one was watching. He looked across to the conn team at the wheel and caught the quartermaster's eye, then pointed with his telescope up the ladder to the poop-deck. The man nodded, and Kydd made his way with Renzi up on to the small deck, the furthest aft of all. It was not a popular place, dominated as it was by the big spanker boom ranging out from the mizzen mast and sometimes activity in the flag-lockers at the taffrail. They were alone.
Kydd stared out over the wake astern, a ragged white line dissolving to nothing in the distance, ever renewed by their steady motion and the noisy tumbling foam under their counter. His dark thoughts were full but refused to take solid form, and he hesitated. "Nicholas. How c'n I say this? Here I stand, an officer. A King's officer! More'n I could dare t' dream of before. And it's—it's not as it should be . . ."