This way they could approach him without fear, on their own ground. There might be before long a shamefaced confession, the men in a body coming forward with the truth.
He waited longer.
There was the sound of footsteps. A single person – who would it be that was—
But it was merely the watch-on-deck, a seaman sent to trim the riding light in the bows. He passed by with his lanthorn, his set face studiously ignoring Bowden. He performed his task, returning without a single glance at the extraordinary sight of an officer sitting on the foredeck, where by now there should have been companionable knots of sailors with clay pipes and leather pots of grog talking easily about their day, perhaps some with a violin or a tuneful voice.
Bowden realised he had to face up to the bitter fact: he had failed completely. None had come up to the foredeck. In a way it was not surprising: if some were inclined to break ranks and approach him they would be seen and marked down as informers. But he had been hoping for a collective resolve. And it had not happened.
‘You realise you were taking a terrible risk, old chap.’
‘Interfering with witnesses, I know. But, by God, I had to try – and I truly believe they would not have informed upon me to the authorities.’
Renzi felt for Bowden, his helplessness in the face of a pitiless Fate, but he carried its weight on his shoulders, too. He had come up with two schemes for rescuing Kydd by stealth but both foundered on the knowledge that he would certainly refuse, sturdily trusting in decency and common law.
He was hollow-eyed with worry, and Bowden looked much the same. They had run out of ideas and, with that, any options for the future.
Bowden wrung his hands over his failure with the Hannibals. ‘As I talked, I could see I’d lost them. There was no common ground, no way to communicate, speak their language …’
‘Stop!’ Renzi cried, as a flash of desperate inspiration came. ‘We’ve one last throw of the die. What if …’
The boat put off once more for Hannibal. It held only one passenger and hooked on at the fore-chains where no visiting boat would ever deign to go. Hannibal’s mate-of-the-watch sent the quartermaster hurrying forwards to intercept the stranger, but by the time he reached the fore-mast a figure had swung over the bulwarks and was inboard.
‘Hey, you – what d’ye think—’
‘Out o’ my way, cully! I got business wi’ the Hannibals,’ the thick-set man growled, knocking him aside.
He slid down the fore-ladder, crossed purposefully to the hatchway and clattered down to the main-deck.
In an age-old routine men were clearing the tables to raise them up against the side of the ship; in the dog-watches the space had changed first from a gun-deck to a mess-deck, and now was transforming again into the open space where at the pipe ‘Down hammocks!’ it would be their communal bedroom.
‘Who are you, then?’ the stranger was asked in astonishment.
Men crowded around to see what apparition out of the night had suddenly appeared in their midst.
The man said nothing, folding his arms and staring about him. More came up, and when the hubbub had died, he spoke.
‘I’m Toby Stirk, gunner’s mate o’ Billy Roarer,’ he grated.
Puzzled looks passed between the men; the quartermaster hovered uncertainly.
He spoke louder. ‘An’ I’m come aboard Hannibal to tip me daddle to the gullion what did for Cap’n Tyrell.’
‘Aye, well …’
‘See, we goes back a long spell. I was gun captain in th’ old Duke William in the last war, when Mantrap was first lootenant o’ the barky.’
Glances of fellow feeling and a dawning respect began to appear.
‘A right bastard then as well, I’d reckon,’ one said.
‘Worse’n that,’ Stirk spat, his eyes glowing.
There were growls of sympathy and a stir in his audience. ‘Come on, Jeb – show yerself!’
A tall, serious-looking seaman came reluctantly forward.
‘Jeremiah Haywood.’
‘You did ’im?’ Stirk said quietly.
‘Aye, I did – but I’m not proud of it, I’ll have thee know,’ the man said, in a troubled voice. ‘Shootin’ in the back ain’t right for any man.’
There were encouraging shouts, and he went on, ‘Gives me two dozen f’r bein’ slow in stays, an’ another dozen afore the first was healed. When I saw him in front o’ m’ musket I just lost m’ rag an’ let fly, is all.’
‘Right. Well, let me go on an’ finish m’ yarn about Duke William. Could be interestin’ to some.’
He paused, letting all eyes find his. ‘See, I’m rememberin’ a young able seaman, runs afoul o’ the bugger. No fault o’ his, and a prime sailorman as ever there was, but he’s triced up and gets the lash as nearly sees ’im fish-meat. Didn’t I tell you his name? Why, it was young Tom Kydd as was.’