The softness of a Caribbean evening was stealing over the waters when Kydd was finally able to return to the dockyard.
The replacement foremast had needed work. Awkwardly placed along the deck of the frigate it had had to be held securely on trestles while shipwrights went to work with adze and angled mast axe. As the chips flew, the craftsmen held Kydd in awe at their skill with such awkward tools. He now knew a good deal more than he had at break of day, and he felt happier than he had at any time since he had left Trajan: this was better than being a spare hand to whatever ship would claim him.
Closer in to the dockyard, he could hear the cries and laughter of the ship's company of Avenger, a ship-sloop whose bulbous, naked hull was heaved right over for careening on the other side of the water. These men would be accommodated ashore while their ship was in such a condition, and were making the most of the relaxing of discipline, taking their evening grog around the shore galley near the capstan house with raucous frivolity. Kydd eased into a grin at the familiar antics.
The injured mast could wait in the water off the mast-house for the morning and he could now dismiss his crew and get some supper. 'Well done, m' lads,' he said, unconsciously regarding them in the same way as a party of seamen after a hard day. Too late the thought came that possibly he should treat slaves in some other way, more at a distance, perhaps. However, they did not respond, and padded off silently together, he couldn't help wondering where.
The shore galley manned, Luke was able to get a hearty platter for him, complete with leaves of some mysterious local vegetable, and he tucked in with a will. It was hard to eat alone, though, with nothing but a candle and circling moths for company.
The conviviality flowing from the capstan house was hard to resist, and Kydd found himself strolling in the warm dark of the evening towards the sounds of merriment. The open frontage of the low building, with its three great capstans, was a favourite place to gather in the growing soft darkness. The lanthorns hung along the beams welcomed him in with splashes of golden light. Men lolled about, taking a clay pipe of tobacco or drinking deep from their pots, in time-honoured sailor fashion outdoing each other in sea yarns and remembrances.
Kydd knew none of them, but could recognise the types even though they were of another ship: the hard, confident petty officers in short blue jackets with brass buttons that glittered in the light of the lanthorns; young seamen bred to the sea, with an easy laugh and a tarry queue unclubbed so its plaited length hung a foot or more down their backs; the lined old shellbacks, whose sea wisdom it would be folly to question.
A man hauled himself up to sit on one of the capstan heads and his fiddle was passed up to him. After a few flourishes he nodded to a handsome seaman with side-whiskers next to him. The man stepped forward and sang in a resonant tenor:
'Oh! Life is the Ocean, and Man is the Boat
That over its surface is destin'd to float;
And joy is a cargo so easily stor'd
That he is a fool who takes sorrow on board!'
The well-known chorus drowned the singer, who affected vexation, stumping around the capstan in high dudgeon. Kydd laughed heartily with the rest, and raised his wooden tankard in salute.
Sensing the mood, the singer stalked to the front of the capstan, and stood akimbo, arms folded, glaring at his audience. The chatter died away expectantly.
A movement on the opposite side caught Kydd's eye. One of the seamen had a woman under his arm, a black woman. Kydd shifted his gaze back to the singer, who leaned forward as though in confidence, and there launched into the racy, driving strains of 'The Saucy Arethusa':
'Come all ye jolly sailors bold
Whose hearts are cast in honour's mould
While English glory I unfold
On board of the Arethusa'
The sailors burst into song, and Kydd felt his cheeks glow with pleasure. The singer bowed and accepted a dripping tankard. Kydd looked about him with a grin.
'Clinkin' good singer, is our Dansey!' A seasoned petty officer grinned back at Kydd.
‘Rattlin' fine voice!' agreed Kydd. 'Are ye Avengers, then?'
'Aye — Ben Kittoe, gunner's mate,' the man replied, taking a pull from his blackjack, a dark tarred leather tankard.
'Kydd, Tom Kydd, quartermaster's mate o' Trajan as was,' he said.
'D'ye mean ... ?'
'T be knackered, poor ol' lady,' Kydd said, and finished his pot.
'Bad cess. So where are yez now?' 'Got m'self a berth as master.' 'What?'
'Master o' the King's Negroes, that is.' Kydd laughed. At the other's curiosity he continued, 'Seem well enough at th' work, but wouldn't trust 'em on their own.'
The numbers at the capstan house had diminished, the galley had closed its hatches, but Kydd felt in no mind to break the mood. Kittoe stood up and waved his blackjack expansively. 'Come wi' us fer a quick noggin, mate.'
The two walked back along the stone quay and into the copper and lumber house. Kydd remembered that it was here that the crews of ships being careened were quartered. Above the locked and darkened store-rooms was the loft where copper plating for the underwater hull was pricked out to shape. 'We got a good sort as Owner,'
Kittoe grunted, as they mounted the exterior iron stairs. 'Sees us right in the article of grog an' such.' They entered: one end of the loft was agreeably illuminated with lanthorns, the light rapidly falling off into darkness at the other end of the broad expanse.
'Here, mate, take a muzzier o' this.' He reached for a dark green bottle from his sea-chest and upended it in Kydd's pot. The cloying aroma of prime West Indian rum eddied up.
'To Trajan - but f'r our hurricanoe, she'd be out crestin' the briny b' now,' Kydd said.
Harsh laughter bayed from a group of sailors at their end of the loft. They were seated around an upended tub, playing cards and swigging hard from bottles. Kittoe allowed his face to go grave. 'Yeah, to a barky as any haul-bowlings c'n feel proud ter own to!' They drank together. Kydd let the rum just burn his lips: the evening might develop.
'Ye come fr'm England?' Kydd asked.
'Nah. Avenger is taken fr'm the Crapauds at Martinico,' Kittoe said briefly. It was the way of it - some clash at arms in these seas .. .
A tall woman appeared, dressed loosely in colourful red. She moved behind Kittoe and slid her arms down his chest. 'Come, Kittoe man, youse an' me make jig-a-jig,' she purred, but her eyes were on Kydd, wide and lambent.
'Away wi' ye, Sukey,' said Kittoe, but with a smile. 'We're talkin' together, yer silly biddy!'
The woman's hair was drawn back and had a hard sheen in the light. A large, polished mahogany-coloured jungle seed hung around her neck. She fingered it, regarding Kydd speculatively. Grunts and cries from the darkness beyond left little doubt about what was going on, and Kydd's senses prickled. 'Hey, youse kooner-man!' she said, her voice low and throaty.
Kittoe took up the bottle again and went to top up Kydd's tankard, but only a few drops of rum emerged. He snorted. 'Pot-boy! Look sharp, we're a-thirst!' A figure hurried over from the other side to attend them and came to a sudden halt.
'Luke!' Kydd cried. 'What're y' doing here?' It was not hard to guess — here he could earn a few coppers. The boy dropped his head as Kydd laid into him. 'You little rascal, this's not the place t' find a fine young gennelman, damn me if it is!'
Obstinately, Luke raised his eyes and said, 'Then what 're you here for, Mr Kydd?'
There was a chortling from Kittoe, but Kydd stood up, face burning. 'None o' y'r business! Now you get y’self back aboard — I mean, return t' our lodgings — this instant, y' swab!'