Caribbee(20)

‘The decks were aswim in blood dire and red,

It’s then that I’m wounded full sore;

Dear Polly my love, with her black rolling eye

Here I lie bleeding, it’s for you I do die …’



There was no hiding it now, and as soon as they made the open air, Kydd roared, ‘Cap’n Tyrell’s carriage, ahoy! Lay alongside now, you villains!’

A small conveyance with an expressionless driver stepped up. Tyrell was hoisted in by the footmen, his cloak and cocked hat tossed in beside him, leaving him to sprawl in confusion.

Kydd felt a stab of pity at the sight of such a man brought low. The least he could do was to see him safe home. He pushed Tyrell to the other side and clambered into the vehicle next to him, propping him upright in a semblance of dignity. As an afterthought he found the cocked hat and clapped it on; it seemed to steady him and the singing stopped.

‘Cast off,’ Kydd snapped, and obediently they started away, clopping down the road.

By the time they had made Tyrell’s residence, a modest house at the fringes of the smarter Georgetown, he seemed to be back in possession of his wits. The carriage ground to a stop and Kydd got out, ready to hand Tyrell down, but he was imperiously waved aside while the other alighted, staggering a little before holding himself erect with drunken dignity.

‘Your house, Rufus,’ Kydd said neutrally. ‘I’ll bid you goodnight now.’

‘W-what? Never!’ Tyrell spluttered. ‘An officer an’ gentleman, you are, Kydd – you’ll come aboard for a snifter, as is the least I can offer a fellow cap’n.’

‘Er, I really must—’

‘Stuff ’n’ nonsense! You’ll come in an’ take m’ hospitality like the gennelman you are.’ A thought struck and he leered suspiciously at Kydd. ‘That is, if you’re not one of the blaggards who can’t stand the company of a fighting seaman.’

The door opened and light spilled out. ‘Is that you, Rufus?’ asked Mrs Tyrell, hesitantly. She was in a mob cap and held a gown tightly around her, clearly called from her bed.

‘Damn sure it is, Hester,’ Tyrell roared, ‘wi’ a guest who’s dry, for God’s sake!’

There was nothing for it but to humour him. Kydd hoped it would not be long.

‘Oh, it’s you, Mr Kydd,’ she said faintly. ‘Er, do come in, pray. I must apologise for the, er …’

‘Not at all, Mrs Tyrell,’ Kydd said warmly, removing his hat. ‘I’m sorry to inconvenience.’

A disgruntled servant, still in his nightcap, stumbled up but was told firmly by Mrs Tyrell that the gentlemen would be supping alone in the front room and she herself would look after them.

They were settled into chairs and a single candle lit; what Kydd could see of the room seemed wan and eerily lifeless.

Mrs Tyrell brought a brandy decanter and glasses and left them.

‘Here’s t’ honour an’ distinction!’ Tyrell said, gesturing grandly, then downing his drink in one.

‘As is the right of every true sea officer,’ Kydd replied, conscious that he had been so blessed but his host had not.

The decanter splashed out more brandy and Tyrell waited meaningfully.

‘Oh – er, to the saucy Arethusa,’ Kydd said hastily, bringing to mind the most iconic ship of the age and impatient to be away.

‘Aye! To the—’ Tyrell stopped. A look of puzzlement, then deep suspicion crossed his face. ‘Why do you … Wha’ do you know about what happened? I demand t’ know!’

Confused, Kydd tried to think. Then he had it. Years ago, part of the blockading fleet off Toulon, as master’s mate he’d been sent, without reason given, as independent witness to Arethusa frigate while the boatswain mustered his stores, returning none the wiser. Then, months later in Gibraltar, he had been sworn to secrecy by her gunner’s mate, a friend, who needed to get it off his chest.

A simple, tawdry tale: the boatswain had conspired with the captain to sell stores and had been found out. Of noble birth, the captain had not been court-martialled and the pair had been quietly removed.

‘Yes, I know about it, Rufus, but that was a damn long time ago.’ What was riding the man? Of a certainty he was not in the fleet at the time.

‘Y-you know, then! I thought, after all these years … Who was it blabbed his mouth?’

To his horror, Kydd could see he was near to tears so answered softly, ‘The gunner’s mate – as swore me to secrecy, Rufus.’

‘Ah. It had t’ be, o’ course.’ He stared away. Kydd was about to take his leave, but then Tyrell downed his brandy in a savage gulp and slopped in more.