Caribbee(4)

‘Are we settled, then, gentlemen?’ Cochrane asked politely, looking right and left. ‘I’m sure you know the rules. We’ll take dinner at two but I’m not expecting a protracted session.’

There were nods and murmurs. Kydd eased his neck-cloth, stealing glances at his neighbours, who, he could see, were adopting suitably grave expressions.

Properly sworn, the court was now in session.

‘Then we shall begin. Bring in the accused.’

There was a shuffling outside and the prisoner appeared, the clink of manacles loud in the silence.

‘Your name and rate?’

‘Dan’l Smythe, able seaman, sir.’

Kydd took in the man: his expression was wary and his eyes darted about the cabin. Wiry and well tanned, he must be in his forties; this was no cringing youngster regretting an impulse. The voice was grog-roughened but steady. If the act had been committed while drunk, it would make no difference to the sentence.

‘Daniel Smythe, you are charged that on the seventeenth day of September last you did …’

Kydd listened grimly. It was much as Pym had said but the twenty-second Article of War was being invoked, a capital charge – and he was sitting in judgment on the man.

‘Do you plead guilty, or not guilty?’

‘Not guilty.’

There was a pathetic nobility in his manner. He had been brought from days’ confinement below in irons to an abrupt appearance before so many senior naval officers, yet he was clearly going to play it through to the end.

The young officer who had been appointed to act in his defence looked nervous. He dropped his pen and, red-faced, fumbled to pick it up.

Opposite, the prosecuting officer waited with a heavy patience, then rose. ‘Sir, this is as clear-cut a case as any I have seen and I do not propose to try the patience of the court with a lengthy submission. I shall be calling but two witnesses, Lieutenant Beale, against whom the offence occurred, and Hannibal’s captain.’

A ripple went about the court: if the captain himself was coming forward as a prosecution witness there could be little hope for the defence.

‘Thank you, Mr Biggs. Lieutenant Hubbard?’

The officer got to his feet and addressed the court. ‘Sir, Able Seaman Smythe denies the charge, saying his actions have been grievously mistaken and—’

‘Just so. Your witnesses?’

Hubbard hesitated. ‘Er, Able Seaman Hogg and Sailmaker’s Mate Martin who were both—’

‘Yes. Are they present?’ Cochrane enquired.

Kydd frowned. If the only testimony Smythe could muster were fore-mast hands, things were looking bleak for him.

‘They are, sir.’

‘Then we’ll proceed. Mr Biggs?’

The essence of the case was laid out in dry, neutral tones. The captain had singled out a man in the crew about the main top bowline bitts as laggardly in his duties and had sent for Lieutenant Beale to hale him aft. There had been sharp words, a scuffle and a belaying pin had been drawn. Smythe had been restrained from actual violence by others in the crew. While being escorted to the quarterdeck, the prisoner had continued to struggle and utter threats until taken below and confined in irons. During this time a sizeable number of Hannibal’s company had shown common cause with Smythe and had assembled in a mutinous manner. The marines were turned out and the men dispersed.

‘Call Lieutenant Beale.’

‘You were the officer on duty at the fore-mast?’ Biggs opened.

‘I was,’ Beale said, with a prim, disapproving air.

‘Tell the court in your own words the events leading up to this unfortunate incident.’

‘Sir. On being desired by the captain to deal with the prisoner, I went to him and remonstrated with him for his conduct, he hanging back when ordered to sweat off on the slablines. He did then swear in a manner derogatory to the name of the Lord at which I said I would inform the captain of this. In reply he damned myself, the captain, and the ship all to Hell, at which I ordered him seized. He drew a pin from the bitts and would have had at me, were he not restrained.’

‘Can you in any way account for this behaviour?’

‘Er, I believe the man was fuddled in liquor at the time, sir.’

Kydd looked down. It was all playing out like some tragic play that could have only one ending, and he was powerless to intervene.

‘Your witness, Lieutenant Hubbard.’

Throwing a nervous glance at the stern features of the admiral, the young man addressed the witness, who lifted his chin disdainfully. ‘Lieutenant, this man is in your division?’

‘He is.’

‘Then you’ll know the prisoner is – how must we say? – famously short-fused. If provoked he may well act in a manner he might later regret.’