The tug-of-war continued until a thin-faced man in drab shore clothes appeared, and plucked at Kydd's sleeves. 'Ben Watkins — mizzen topsailman o' the Duchess as was,' he said, against the din. 'Heard tell it was a near-run thing, mates.'
The pulling and tugging subsided a little. 'Yes,' said Kydd shortly, but with a smile.
'Know somethin' about it, me bein' aboard when we took the - the Majeste that time,' Watkins said. Kydd looked at him. The man's voice lowered. 'See, mates, has ter bear up for Poverty Bay like, see, and I needs an outfit afore I ships out agen, and . . .'
Kydd felt inside his waistcoat and came out with a crown piece. Renzi grabbed his hand, but Kydd pressed it on the man. He looked at Renzi. 'I know,' he said, 'but I'm feelin' flush.'
Renzi realised that Kydd knew the man to be a fraud —there was no such thing as a 'mizzen topsailman' and he had never heard of a Duchess or of a Majeste. It was Kydd's simple generosity, and Renzi felt mean. 'Let's cruise, shipmate,' he said, and disengaged Kydd from the harpies' embraces. They shouldered through the noisy crush, seeing Petit being borne in, laughing and shouting.
Outside they paused in the bright sunlight. The water was alive with small craft, and a light frigate was making her way slowly past in the summer breeze, outward bound. The street was a kaleidoscope of colour.
As a pressed man in the old battleship Duke William, Kydd had never before had the opportunity to enjoy shoreside pleasures and he looked keenly about him — the hucksters, gentlemen and their ladies, sailors ashore and the vivid splash of red of an officer of a foot regiment. A cart trundled past, piled high with barrels. The sweat of the two horses was sharp in his nostrils; there was something about the purity of the sea air on a long voyage that made the scents of the shore so much more pungent.
Without a word they turned to the left, away from the dockyard, and made their way down the street. Sailors were shouting to each other and rolling down the way in fine style. Impecunious lieutenants heading for the dockyard from their cheap lodgings in Southsea crossed to the other side to avoid confrontation, but most passers-by grinned conspiratorially at their antics.
At the first corner Kydd and Renzi headed down the maze of smaller lanes to wander among the shops and hostelries. The aroma of mutton and onions hit them. 'My dear fellow—' began Renzi, but Kydd, with a quick grin, was already on his way into the chop house. They slid into place in a high-backed alcove and loudly demanded service.
'A brace of y'r shilling mutton pies an' not so damn near with y'r trimmings,' Kydd began.
'With pork chops on the side, if you please,' agreed Renzi.
'An' onions all over, with a jug o' y'r best stingo.'
'To be sure — and if your vittles isn't of the first quality then we shall tack about and make another board.'
An hour later, replete, they eased out into the street again. The day was cheerful in every particular, the noises in the thoroughfare busy and jolly and the two friends wandered along, mellow and happy.
A tattoo parlour attracted Kydd, who suggested that a bright blue anchor on the back of each hand might be the very thing. 'Leave it till later,' Renzi advised quickly, and pulled him across to an agreeably decorated bow window where sailors' knick-knacks were on display.
The corpulent shopman sized them up. 'Artemis, if my eyes do not deceive,' he burbled, fussing at his stock. 'Just the wery thing for a gentleman mariner,' he declared, sweeping forward a deep blue seaman's jacket. It was ornately finished in white piping and boasted a splendid superfluity of white buttons. 'Yes? Then you will without doubt need a waistcoat of the true sort — and 'ere I 'ave the harticle in question. I see you have already noticed the genuine pearl buttons and extra fine stitching.'
A short time later the pair emerged from the shop in fine attire, complete with the latest style of round hat with a dashing curled brim. Wiggling his toes in his smart long-quartered shoes, Kydd laughed with the sheer delight of being rigged out like a true-born son of the sea.
Their steps took them past the anachronistic yet charming white stone walls and turrets of the gun wharf. They turned right towards Broad Street, Kydd's rolling walk just a little exaggerated. In Old Portsmouth a sailor was a natural denizen among the crazy, rickety buildings of the narrow spit of Portsmouth Point.
At the lowering ramparts of King Henry's fortifications they turned right, past the Sally Port, where boat crews came and went from the great fleet at anchor at Spithead. The massive dark stone arch they passed was the last part of England that would be seen by the wretches condemned to transportation to Botany Bay. Kydd shuddered. The last time he had seen these old stones was from seaward, as a new-pressed landman on the foredeck of a line-of-battie ship.