Caribbee(110)

The irony of it was, of course, that Kydd was being unjustly condemned by the very men he had arisen from, those he understood so well, the kind with whom he had once been shipmates.

There were legends that, as a young officer, Kydd had set aside his uniform to take on at their level a common seaman in a bare-knuckle duel, and other tales of him directly appealing to his men, who had not let him down.

So Bowden would do the same. Follow Kydd’s example and appeal to the Hannibals directly. It was the only course left open, the last remaining chance, and, by God, he would take it.

There was one terrible risk, however: in going to the men he was laying himself and Kydd open to the charge of interfering with witnesses, which would have the inevitable consequence of sealing his fate beyond retrieving.

It stopped him cold.

What would Kydd himself do? There could be no doubt: he would go ahead in faith.

Hannibal was in a very different state. The dread presence in the after cabins was no longer there – it was as if a hellish portent always present had passed on. Men spoke in subdued tones, only half believing what had happened. The officers had gone ashore to be away from the sense of death and menace and Bowden had the wardroom to himself.

In a rising fever of resolution he considered his move.

How would Kydd go about this? The last thing he’d do was muster them by division. Instead he would doff his uniform. He would go down on the mess-deck to pass among them, feel their temper, show that he knew them and cared about them.

Bowden stood up, then self-consciously took off his coat and tucked his cocked hat under his arm as he had seen Kydd do when on informal visits to a forward part of the ship.

Then, quite deliberately, he left the cabin spaces and went to the after hatchway, hearing the accustomed noise and rough jollity of the men at their supper and grog. At the top of the ladder he teetered at the thought of what he was about to do – then descended.

The long-hallowed custom was that the men were left to themselves for their meal and grog, to talk freely and get off their chest any rankling matter without fear of being overheard by an officer. He had now broken that code.

Heads turned in astonishment at his appearance; as he walked slowly between the tables conversations stopped. Like a widening ripple, the sudden quiet spread out until the whole mess-deck was craning round to see what was happening.

Bowden reached the gratings over the main hatchway and stopped. The atmosphere was close. It stank of bodies and the smoke of the rush dips that lit each table in flickering gold, and which touched, too, the massive black iron of the guns between in a martial gleam.

He looked forward, then aft, until he was sure of their attention.

Then he spoke. ‘Hannibals. Shipmates. I think you know why I’m here.’

There was a ripple of murmurs that quickly died away.

‘In fact I’m sure you do. That’s why I’ll be brief. I do apologise for my intrusion into your time, which I would never contemplate in any other circumstances.’

He saw interest turn to guarded resentment and realised, in a pang of despair, that while he could follow Kydd’s lead in going among them he could never talk to them in their own cant, the sea-talk common to all seamen that revealed beyond doubt that the speaker was one of them.

‘It’s a plea. For common humanity to as noble an officer as it’s been my honour to serve with.’

There was a stillness that was absolute. ‘And for justice. Is it right that a man should be punished for the sins of another?’

Now the sea of faces showed nothing but a stolid blankness. He knew the signs: they were closing ranks to an officer.

‘I appeal to you! On your manhood, do not let this thing happen!’ The surge of passion caught him by surprise but he didn’t care. This was Kydd’s last chance.

‘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.